Le Toucher Doux
by chels0792
Summary: They had played their delicate sparring game, and Alfred had come out the loser. He made no attempt to hide his anxiety as Ivan approached, and backed into the wall to escape him. "What are you gonna do? What did I agree to?" Alfred and Ivan finally come to terms. I tried to keep the characters true. Warning for adult lemons ahead.
1. Chapter 1

A quarter after midnight, and Alfred had never come.

Ivan recrossed his legs on the coffee table and reached for the bottle he'd set on the floor. The inky blackness and silence were intensely comforting, as he had hoped, though he realized he was probably strange to sit in such a lonely darkness. No one had questioned his desire to be alone in the house, which left him to realize that his business was not nearly as private as he preferred it to be, and he'd reminded himself to have a word with his sister about her good intentions. He didn't wonder where they had all gone. He did wonder if he'd chilled the room with his aura, as Alfred insisted he did when nervous or angry.

Alfred had told him not to, but he'd packed the boy's things. No one had ever needed an overnight bag for him before. It had been a new concept. He was certain he'd found every last detail and possession on his exhaustive search after he'd discovered one of Alfred's sneakers in the back of his own closet. He'd apparently only needed one of the pair at home. The sneaker sat in the bag with the rest of Alfred's things on the couch beside him, waiting. Waiting.

The display on his game console was sickly green and inexplicably irritating. He'd never noticed that obnoxious glow before. He'd also never waited so impatiently for a visitor.

He took another drink of Alfred's favorite vodka. It wasn't his favorite. He'd have to do something with the crate in the basement.

He would wait until the next hour struck, then he would do something else. He wasn't sure what. The waiting was degrading.

Though he might wait forever.

Alfred was right, though he suspected that Ukraine had warned him of her brother's obsessive tendencies. Ivan was a danger to those he loved, even more so than to those he hated. He always had been. He'd never bothered to check his behaviors until Alfred. Alfred had asked. He'd only had to ask. Ukraine had asked too, but never seemed to realize how she'd tamed him. Well, unless she had. Maybe that's why Alfred had felt the need to warn him away from his little brother.

He'd only had to ask, and Ivan had de-clawed himself. Alfred had been oblivious at the time, which had come as a surprise to no one, and Ivan certainly wouldn't tell. It had been a fling. He would hate the boy again soon, he had thought, his mind played tricks.

The fling never ended, and Ivan sat in the darkness alone with an empty bottle and an aching chest. Alfred wasn't there, and the hole he left behind was insulting and maddening. And real. So real that Ukraine had offered him a tiny smile and a moment of eye contact before she'd closed the door, one of the rare familial moments he shared with only her. He wondered if she could hear the frost growing in crystalline patterns over his heart, then decided she probably couldn't. But she could guess the frost was there.

Ukraine knew too much. She needed to be punished. He would regret her tears.

He lied to himself: his heart did not leap when a knock finally sounded at the door. He didn't rise to his feet with a devastatingly potent sense of elation, and he did not hurry into the hall. Adrenaline didn't surge when he identified that the shadow on the stoop was Alfred in his red sweater and favorite coat. His fingers didn't reach for the handle by themselves. He didn't welcome the rush of emotion that rocked him when he made contact with those beautiful blue eyes. They did not remind him of warmth and laughter.

Alfred didn't want it, so it couldn't be.

Alfred greeted him awkwardly, as was to be expected, and Ivan held his face blank. The boy must not know.

But he was shivering, and snow gathered in his golden hair. Ivan's stomach twisted—Alfred didn't like the winter storms.

Ivan backed away from the door to tempt him with the house's heat. "I have your things."

"Oh." Alfred's gut knotted uncomfortably. He stepped inside the house, but only after Ivan had moved out of easy reach. "…Thanks."

Alfred stomped snow from his shoes before he closed the General out of the house. He followed Ivan into the living area with a growing sense of nausea.

Ivan lifted a duffel bag from the cushions and tossed it over the threshold into the hall. Alfred caught it, grateful for Ivan's sensitivity toward his comfort. The further away he was, the safer Alfred would feel. Why were all the lights off? The place was like a tomb.

He cleared his throat. "Um, do you mind if I—talk for a minute? Mattie says I owe you an explanation. I don't mean to be a dick."

Ivan simply stood in front of the couch and stared at him with those bottomless eyes.

Alfred swallowed and tried to ignore how well Ivan melted into the blackness of the room. "I just want to make sure you know you didn't do anything wrong. I—made a mistake."

He lifted his head, but couldn't meet Ivan's eyes. "I'll tell you the truth. I feel like I owe you that much respect. The truth is that I—started getting attached, you know? And I know and you know we can't have that."

Ivan had been expecting some kind of babble, had been terrified Alfred wouldn't speak at all. He'd imagined what conclusions Alfred would draw over his weeks alone with his elder brothers and their gossip and thought he had been prepared.

He had not been prepared.

Alfred shifted the bag to his other sweaty palm. He stared down the hall toward the deserted kitchen and tried to silence the riot in his stomach without success. "It started a little while ago. After December?" He released a frustrated sound and met Ivan's gaze. "Are you going to try to kill me?"

" _Nyet_." Even if he thought he could.

"Can I have a swig of that?" Alfred pointed at one of the open bottles on the table. "Can I sit down? We might as well talk like adults."

Ivan sat and held out the bottle. Alfred loosened his tie, dropped the bag in the hallway, and landed in his seat. He took a long drink, then offered the bottle to Ivan, who took a mouthful to communicate that the alcohol wasn't poisoned or drugged.

"I don't know what happened, man." Alfred accepted the bottle. "All of a sudden. You and me." He met Ivan's eyes, and they shared a moment. "What happened, man? What the hell happened?"

Ivan kept his silence.

"I want to be open about this." Alfred said to himself. "Look, I started to get attached to you. It's weird and really uncomfortable, and I don't like it. It's not safe, it's not smart, and…"

"I agree." Ivan took the bottle and hoped the vodka would deaden the hollow throbbing in his ribcage.

Alfred rested his forearms on his knees and stared at the wall. "I don't know if you wanted this to happen. Maybe you're manipulating me. You told me yourself what you said you'd do to Arthur's kids. I imagine I'm probably the toughest of us to crack."

Yes, Ivan thought. Rationalize. Remember how much you hate me. Guard yourself with disgust.

"But—I don't think that's what happened. Neither does Francis." America passed the bottle. "I'm really sorry, Ivan. I'm sorry to be taking somebody away from you. I didn't mean for this to happen." His voice rang with sincerity. "It's my fault."

"It's fine," Ivan heard himself say. Damn the boy's cloying nature. "This was an unforeseen consequence of amity. I am glad to know you are aware of your mistakes."

Alfred snorted. "I guess goodwill isn't for everybody."

They sat in uncomfortable silence until Alfred said, "I'm gonna miss you, man. Even if that's not okay for me to say. I'm not looking forward to being lonely again."

Before Ivan could speak, Alfred said, "Listen. I need to thank you again for staying away from Mattie. I know it probably hasn't been easy these last few weeks and I'm just really grateful you've been so cooperative. So thanks. It really means a lot."

Ivan paused with the bottle in the air and met his eyes. Alfred's gaze was candid. His heart twisted, beat once, and tricked him into speech. "I am glad to have helped you." Then, in the following silence, "I will leave your family be, for now. I have no business with them."

It was a lie. He did have ends to meet. But Alfred had so politely asked to be left alone. The boy knew he would not maintain peace for long. He had merely wanted to see him smile once, before he left. It occurred to Ivan that he behaved abnormally; but Alfred had thought to thank him for his effort, and he had been honest. The boy had always been able to move him.

"Wow, really? I appreciate that. Thank you, Ivan. Really." Alfred reached out as if to touch him, but took avoided contact. His smile was strained, but genuine. "Thank you."

He stood with his hands shoved deep in his pockets. "I should go. I hope you understand. And thank you. For everything."

Ivan stayed on the couch. He didn't follow Alfred's awkward steps to the door. He didn't stare into the hallway until the door closed. He didn't watch for Alfred's shadow on the curtains.

He let him go, let Alfred back into the free world where he belonged.

"Attached." Ivan repeated into the neck of the bottle, in English. "Emotionally attached."

He emptied the drink, and through the resulting burn he muttered, " _Bud'te zdorovy, podsolnechnik_." _Be well._

England would be proud of his boy, he thought, though Alfred deserved better than unappreciative silence. Alfred had made a decision against his heart for what might have been the very first time. For him, a creature of sentiment and spirit, he was sure that was a hard lesson to learn.

Ivan was glad he had been the villain. He trusted no one else to handle Alfred properly. He molded the boy like no one else could, and the usually obstinate Alfred had been flawless in every response. No one tried to deny that the two were meant to be together, either as enemies or as allies. No one but Alfred, evidently, and he was the only person on Earth who mattered.

But everything would be all right if Alfred had what he wanted. If he was safe, if he was happy, if he had the world at his fingertips. If Alfred was free, so was Ivan. That had been a hard lesson too, but Ivan was old, and he knew how to learn quickly, not to fight his own unpredictable heart. Sunflowers were meant for vast fields and the kiss of sunlight. They simply perished in the cold and dark. He was a fool.

"Hey."

Ivan's knee barked against the table, and he struggled to contain the excitement that shook his bones when he found that Alfred had returned to the hallway, covered in snow and shivering. His bronzed cheeks were ruddy, and his shoulders heaved with exertion. Had he been running?

"Did you forget something?" Ivan kept his voice as calm as he could. He was not entirely successful.

Alfred hugged his arms closer against the chill that stuck to his clothes. He'd tracked snow all over the floorboards, and it melted in the shape of hurried footprints. "Sorry. I knocked, but I figured you were probably still up. I forgot to say something."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. It doesn't really matter, but if I didn't tell the truth it'd haunt me. And what I'm about to say might give you a great opening if you ever wanted to take me out, so listen up."

Ivan set the bottle on the table and stood. Every minute with the boy was precious, all the more for his leaving. "Breathe, then speak to me."

"I can't. If I hesitate I won't say it." Alfred's teeth clattered together. "I wasn't completely honest. I know what happened. I can tell you where it went wrong. It started after December. After we started hanging out for fun."

Alfred spoke with harried concentration, as if trying to cast out the words all at once. "That's when it started, but a couple weeks ago I finally figured out what's been bothering me and it spooked me, man, it really freaked me out."

"Alfred." Ivan used his most soothing voice and moved into the light of the hallway. "Speak more slowly or I cannot understand you."

"Right. English. Sorry. Anyway." Alfred took a step back when Ivan took one step too close. "Since we started hanging out, I've been feeling like something's been wrong."

"How long?" Ivan asked to slow his train of thought.

"About a year ago? When things settled down between you and me." Alfred gestured between them with a finger. "When we started playing online together."

"Yes?"

"Okay, here goes." Alfred released a breath and shifted from foot to foot. "You know me, man, I'm always running around to the next thing and everybody's always around, asking me for shit. Kinda chaotic, but in a good way, you know? Those nights when it's just you and me and online mode and a crate of vodka," he chuckled, "that shit started keeping me sane."

Alfred continued. "You're the only person who really knows what I'm capable of sometimes. You make me feel powerful and strong and smart. I like who I am when I'm with you. I was talking to Francis and Mattie and Arthur yesterday and I realized that you make me feel… so calm."

Ivan didn't know what expression might show on his face.

Alfred's voice slowed. He warmed his fingers by rubbing them together inside his sleeves. "My head gets quieter and I feel like I can think and I feel more grounded. When you're around. And I realized that the thing that was bothering me was that…" He stopped for a steadying breath. "A couple weeks ago I realized that I can't get through the week if I don't talk to you. Like I told Francis, I realized I can hear my heartbeat when I'm with you, and I never notice it otherwise. That was just such a shock to me, the symbolism."

Ivan feared that the moment would vanish in a dream. He thought perhaps that Alfred was mocking him and was almost proud of the boy's brutality. He wondered if he'd finally lost so much of his sanity that he'd retreated into some precious delusional fantasy. A fantasy wherein Alfred would sprint to him through the dark and the cold to make some profound confession about his beating heart.

Alfred shrugged. "Maybe it's because we spent so much time trying to kill each other, you know, so we've seen the worst in each other already. You're powerful and dignified and you've got so much experience and everybody knows what you're capable of. You're good at all the things I suck at, and I'm really good at the things you suck at, and you're totally fine with that. It doesn't make you uncomfortable at all that I'm a little stronger or a little bit younger. You know you're formidable too. I have so much respect for that, dude, I really do."

Ivan thought that surely his heart couldn't beat any harder. Surely his stomach couldn't feel any lighter. He forced his lungs to inhale.

Ivan's face was hidden in shadow, and he couldn't see his expression. Alfred reminded himself that it didn't matter and exhaled long and low. "Okay. It was really important to me I tell you all that. I don't think you're a crazy person, dude. I think you're nuttier than a box of squirrels, but I'm not convinced that's a weakness."

He shook his head, feeling melting snow run down the back of his neck. Or was that a chill because he didn't know Ivan was reacting? "I left my bag by the road. I'll say this one last thing: just because everything I just said is true, don't think for a second that I don't know you could be manipulating me. All that is the real reason why I'm leaving. I can't take that risk."

He scuffed his shoes on the stained floor. "I told Francis about the heartbeat thing. He seemed to think it was important I tell you about it. I don't know why."

Ivan swallowed. So the boy had no idea what he'd just done. General Winter burst gleefully into the hall, scattering snowflakes in his wake.

His heart cried for him to speak, beat powerlessly against his ribcage as if the boy might hear. Dirty icewater soaked into Ivan's socks, but he didn't remember stepping into the hallway. Alfred laid a hand on the doorknob, and Ivan said, "If I was not manipulating you?"

Ivan's voice was so soft, so… light. Low and quiet. Startled, Alfred said over his shoulder, "Then you'd be wasting a good opportunity, I guess."

He hesitated with his hand on the doorknob. Waves of frigid air numbed his face, but the house at his back was warm. He had been so sure, on the jog back to Ivan's house, what he would say and do. How the conversation would end. That he would know for once and for all that he had made the best decision.

It was Alfred's fatal mistake to look up at Ivan. One large hand clutched at the end of his scarf in a display of anxiety while the other rested in the folds around his throat. The elder's sensual mouth was a thin, pale line; his throat worked. Ivan's penetrating stare left no room for rebellion. It was a hypnotizing expression that always preceded pain.

They'd avoided any real fighting—excepting righteous sex, of course—for nearly a year, but he'd committed a sin. He'd admitted weakness, Alfred thought, and his heart began to pound. He needed to run. He needed to throw open the door, run into the cold, and lock his apartment behind him. And maybe pray.

Ivan laid a hand on the door, and Alfred knew he needed to sprint out into the wind, run home, hide under his bed until daybreak. He gritted his teeth and stared up at Ivan with defiance in every cell of his body. But he couldn't move.

Ivan turned the lock on the door, holding Alfred still with his eyes. He was a man to give credit where credit was due. Francis had earned a respite from the punishment he'd earlier decided.

 _"The boy has known so little affection," Francis had sighed, and tapped ash from his cigarette. "You should have seen him the first time we made love. I lament the poor boy's upbringing. Arthur showed him so little warmth, and now my little_ enfant _sees fault where compassion should be. You should know. Like you, Alfred is resistant to pain, but he has no defenses to_ le toucher doux _."_

 _Ivan had not corrected him._

 _"Be gentle with him." Francis had said with a slant to his eyes. "And he will melt like butter."_

How many times had Ivan fantasized the moment Alfred submitted wholly to him, bowed his head and renounced all others before him? How many nights had Ivan stood over the boy while he slept unwittingly on his couch and dreamed of the day when Alfred belonged to him? He had made his threat to Arthur with the intentions of carrying through, and carry through he would. The boy was right to fear for his safety.

But he had expected to take the boy by force. He had not anticipated that Alfred would be so delightfully charming, or so erotically willing to please. He had not been prepared for black jealousy to strike when Belarus threatened to beat Alfred with the broom handle, for Alfred's unexpected delivery of dessert when he'd otherwise have been alone, for Alfred's complex understanding of his own strange behaviors. He had not planned for those nights they spent tangled together, satisfied after hours of vicious fucking, vaguely conscious of their fifteenth round of some videogame and too drunk to leave the house.

No, he did not mind admitting defeat. Not if Alfred won something in the fall.

Alfred's eyes were ablaze with the promise of violence, and as much as he loved that expression on that charismatic face, he needed the boy compliant. He needed him docile and to understand what Ivan asked of him. He wasn't ready, and Ivan would sincerely enjoy preparing him.

The boy tightened his fists and stared him down without fear. How beautiful. He'd missed the sight. Alfred would kick a heel into his hip to unbalance him, then shove at his ribcage to push him away. Ivan laid his palms on Alfred's forearms without pressure and stepped into Alfred's space. He lowered his head, holding Alfred's eyes with his own, until the bridges of their noses nearly touched.

Confusion crossed Alfred's handsome features. The heel of his soaked running shoe hit the wall with a _thump_ that startled him. His eyes widened in shock.

Neither of them could count the number of times they'd fucked over the years. They were an insatiable pair, lustful and gluttonous, and neither bothered to feel shameful for his appetite. But for their number of brutal defeats, bloodied fistfights, and ferocious grappling, not one time had either thought to kiss. They weren't lovers, just convenient; it wouldn't have made sense.

The unspoken communication passed through them— _Are you really?_ and _Yes, I am_.

Alfred's head moved from side to side, but he held eye contact and opened his mouth, maybe to shout or to gasp in surprise.

Ivan took Alfred's mouth with his own. He made no attempt toward gentleness, made no promises he couldn't keep. He dominated Alfred's mouth with his tongue and punished with his teeth when he was denied. He was so enthralled by Alfred's taste—he actually tasted like warm sunshine and salted sunflower seeds—that he failed to register that the expected kick and push never came.

Alfred meant to shove Ivan. He fisted his hands in his shirt and pressed his feet into the ground, but then Ivan's mouth covered his, and his head hit the wall with a solid _thunk_ that didn't hurt, and he realized that Ivan tasted just like fresh snow and crisp morning air and maybe tea, and the taste was so good. He remembered the smell—the taste—of tea from a home he'd once known, and memories of safer times assaulted him. The surprise drained the strength from his arms, so he stayed where he was and allowed himself to be attacked.

No battle for dominance came. Ivan watched Alfred's eyes and hid the thrill that electrified his spine when Alfred chose not to fight him. He cupped Alfred's upper arms with loose fingers and used his palms to urge Alfred away from the wall, into the frame of his body. They weren't unfamiliar with one another—Alfred wouldn't resist.

Alfred's head fell backward as Ivan deepened the kiss. He stepped forward into Ivan's shape, shocked and drained. It—it didn't hurt, not even a little, and he wouldn't strike if he wasn't hit first. Ivan closed a hand around his jaw, holding him captive for his tongue to explore, and Alfred tensed.

Ivan was not new to _le toucher doux_ , as Francis had said, the gentle touch. He was mild with Lithuania—he had to be, or he'd break him—and he had been calculatingly gentle with Francis on two separate occasions after the curious Frenchman approached him. If Francis' mewling and the following pouting had been any indication, he was adept. He supposed it made sense. He knew the dance between authority and compliance, and what else was sex? He knew how to bring about tremendous pain; it would follow that he could bring about tremendous pleasure as well. The two were not opposites, but partners in the body, and he could call either forth with skillful ease in pursuit of the note that would break a man.

Alfred was adverse to Ivan's gentleness, and Ivan was adverse to offering. To be tender would have been a lie, and neither party was interested in boring lies if the honest pain felt so damn good. Their companionship was based in, built on, and thrived with hatred, and so they fucked rather than made love. For Ivan to show him pleasure without suffering would have meant something else entirely, something emotional which neither wanted or believed.

Alfred would feel only pleasure, and that was certain to scare him. The boy was not yet compliant enough to appreciate the comforts he had planned. The peak of attainment was thrilling, but Ivan's work was not yet done.

To emphasize his disobedience, Alfred remembered his impressive strength and shoved Ivan hard. He regained his balance quickly, but lost control of Alfred's head.

Flushed and frantic, Alfred lifted a defensive arm between them. His wet shoes squeaked on the wood panels as he turned on his heel. Ivan _kissed_ him, he thought in shock. It hadn't hurt. He stomped away from Ivan, from what had just happened. Not only had that _kiss_ not hurt, it felt great, and that was _not_ okay. "I will _not_ be the idiot who falls for this."

Ivan struggled not to panic. He was so close. He couldn't lose when he was so close.

He forced himself to stay silent as Alfred twisted the lock. General Winter had bored with their teasing; the winds of the storm had softened. A single snowflake curled around the open crack in the door to land on the side of Alfred's shoe.

Alfred turned, and a gust of white breath vanished into the house. "What do you want with me, Braginski?"

The hallway darkened with Alfred so far away. He couldn't let him leave. He'd do what he must to make him stay, to make him _his_. He was so _close_. Ivan hid his nose in his scarf, twisting it with his hands, and looked away. "Go, Alfred."

Alfred's azure eyes narrowed, and he ground his perfect teeth. "Just like that?"

"You have your things. You said what you came here to say. Leave me."

Alfred's face betrayed him: cockiness, anger, anticipation. The heady liquor of youth. "You're not gonna make me. I'm supposed to believe that."

Ivan lifted himself to his full height, allowed his disdain to show. "You have made your desires clear, and I have been as patient as I can be with your imprudence. If you want to go, then go." He performed the finishing blow with a drop of the eye and clench of the jaw. "I want you to be safe. I thought—you said—just go."

Alfred's weakness was his heartstrings, and Ivan played him without mercy. In truth, his own heart beat frantically beneath his shirt, desperate to call out, to make him understand. Perhaps they still played each other in this new game of emotions. They had never been merciful combatants.

Ivan dropped his gaze, shook his head, and left the hallway. He stood in the darkness behind the couch, excruciatingly aware of how close he was to losing the encounter. If Alfred left, he would miss his perfect opportunity. If Alfred stayed, he might win him forever. He pressed the material of his scarf to his lips. His nerves frayed where he stood.

The door closed and latched, and then— _there_ —the sound of a wet shoe. Ivan thought he might shout in delight. He couldn't stop the manic expression of glee that stretched his face, and was glad he was hidden in shadow.

Alfred was hesitant. "Are you—are you seriously not fucking with me?"

His voice had taken on a northern accent, which Ivan had always liked. He turned in a slow glide and stared, melancholy. If only he could speak it, and be believed. But Alfred needed to be shown. Just a little more. Just a little _closer_.

Framed in the hallway's light, Alfred glowed like the angel he was. He licked his lips, eyes narrow. "You know what? I know you're fucking with me." He tilted his chin, voice slow in thought. "But I don't… think you're doing it on purpose."

Taken aback, Ivan lifted his nose out of his scarf. " _Kakiye_?"

"You know what I think?" Alfred lifted a hand to gesture, face tight with anxiety, and shifted on his feet as he spoke. "I think somewhere down there, you're sincere. But I think what you really want and what you really think have to go through so many layers of acting, and pretending, and faking," he accentuated each word with a slice of his hand, "that you can't be sincere anymore."

Shocked to the core and vaguely insulted, Ivan found that he had nothing to say.

"You want me to stay here tonight. You got something planned. Something you're real excited about." Alfred said, and Ivan lifted his head to communicate that he was correct. "Yeah, that's what I thought. But I don't think," Alfred said slowly, "you're scheming. It really is important to you that I stay with you tonight. Isn't it?"

Ivan turned his body consciously to face the hall, and Alfred lifted his other hand, fingers splayed. "Easy. Easy, all right? I don't think either one of us want a fight right now."

He licked his lips, still plumped from what Ivan had done. "Now let me ask you something. If I do stay with you tonight, if I take off my coat and we do what you wanna do, what are the chances I'll walk out of here on my own two legs tomorrow?"

Ivan blinked. Alfred swayed in a halo of yellow light, hands held in a defensive position, face as hard as he'd ever seen. His brown jacket creaked as he inhaled deliberately, as if preparing himself, and looked Ivan up and down to assess his next attack.

"Alfred." Ivan stood as still as he could and spoke as clearly as he could. "You can do what you want. Tonight, tomorrow. The world is yours."

Ivan moved carefully, and Alfred stared him down with an expression he hadn't seen since the Cold War. Alfred shuffled back a step as Ivan stepped into the light of the hallway, and his breathing quickened. Like a frightened animal, the boy showed the whites of his eyes. He could still flee, and then Ivan would be left alone with his defeat.

He wrapped his fingers around the fur mantle of Alfred's coat and lifted it from his shoulders. Alfred swallowed audibly, shivering with the tension he held, and for a moment he only waited for some attack from behind. When none came, he brushed the coat off of one shoulder, then the other.

Ivan pointedly hung the coat in the foyer, watching from the corner of his eye as Alfred struggled to untie his laces with shaking fingers.

Alfred's heart raced so hard he worried that he might black out. His shoes were soaked through and stuck to his socks, so he tugged them off one at a time with both hands. Ivan hadn't given him an answer, he thought. Even if he had, it would have been a lie. Maybe that was why he hadn't said anything at all.

Ivan was facing him at the end of the hallway with an expression Alfred did not like, and he was between Alfred and the door. He'd seen Ivan's hatred, faced it head-on time and again. He'd seen Ivan's disgust, his fascination, his amusement. He'd seen Ivan calm and Ivan drunk and even Ivan kind of happy. He'd seen Ivan lustful and prideful. He'd never seen the intensity those violet eyes held as Ivan regarded him and planned his next move.

Alfred felt young. He felt inexperienced and scared. He already regretted his decision.

That beautiful night in the heart of Moscow's winter when Alfred had faced him for the first real time had been illuminating, exhilarating, infuriating. The boy refused to resign himself, refused to bleed out, refused to succumb to the cold. Ivan had felt his rage peak for the first time in a very long time, and Alfred had trembled in his wake. His hands shook with frostbite and fear, and his pistol had missed every shot.

Alfred held no gun, and he held no pipe. The cold was outside, and the hallway was warm. Not one venomous threat had been made, but the boy trembled. He looked so very like he had then that Ivan wondered what had been done to condition Alfred to fear _le toucher doux_. He reminded himself to break Arthur's nose, and maybe a few other fragile parts. He'd let him live. Alfred should be easy to fix.

They had played their delicate sparring game, and Alfred had come out the loser. He made no attempt to hide his anxiety as Ivan approached, and backed into the wall to escape him. "What are you gonna do? What did I agree to?"

Ivan stared down at him with something akin to pity, and the hair on the back of Alfred's neck stood on end. He threw up his arms in defense as Ivan set his palms on the boy's his shoulders. Alfred's backside made contact with the wall, and he was out of room to run. Ivan placed his knee between Alfred's unsteady legs.

Alfred's forearms barred him from stepping any closer without use of force. His bright eyes were hard as glass, despite his shaking, and his mouth was stiff as stone. Ivan eclipsed all but a sliver of yellow light which glinted on the edge of his glasses, his Texas, as if reminding Ivan how many layers had yet to be removed from the boy's psyche. And his exquisite body. He would relish the chore.

The location of the final act wasn't a concern of his, but he wondered if he should attempt to lure Alfred into the bedroom. Perhaps the bed was a comforting place for Alfred to resign the last of his liberties. He catalogued the task at hand, counting pieces of clothing and tantrums yet to be had. Ivan smoothed the fabric of the heavy cotton sweater down Alfred's arms in an attempt to soothe his trembling, and Alfred surprised them both. He dropped his eyes to Ivan's lips and back to his eyes in invitation.


	2. Chapter 2

The boy tested the waters, Ivan thought, gauged his temperament. He could speak no promises, not to Alfred, and Alfred knew not to believe a word Ivan told him—so he hadn't asked for words. The pair had always connected without them. Their extensive history worked in their mutual favor, Ivan pondered as he lowered his head. For two men who couldn't speak truths, communication was startlingly clear. He would not deny the boy comforts. Not tonight.

Alfred's taste was a drug. How natural it was to pin him against the wall with his thigh and explore that inviting mouth. Alfred's throat worked against his palm, and he shifted his feet like an untamed foal. He would be still before Ivan would let him leave. Alfred would be tame in a matter of hours.

The thought prompted a shiver that rumbled through his body and into the boy's, and Alfred seemed to realize what Ivan had thought. He fisted his hands in Ivan's shirt and tossed his head to free himself, setting his teeth and pushing Ivan away.

On any other occasion Ivan would have punished him for his defiance with blood. That was the dynamic: Ivan topped, Alfred bottomed, and they both got off on the power struggle. Alfred would bite and claw and snarl without any real passion, and Ivan would employ his unapologetic natural dominance to put Alfred in his place beneath him. The balance had become a comfort, a stable plateau in an ever-changing world. Alfred much preferred that Ivan draw blood, rather than the alternative. In his experience, the price of freedom was pain. To dispute that fact was unnatural.

Francis had been his first, and he was cognizant enough to recognize that he should be grateful. His elder brother had taken him under his wing with the assurance that he would enjoy himself, and he had of course been right: Francis was a master lover, and Alfred had been masterfully loved. The experience broadened his understanding of himself wonderfully, and he looked back on the night with great fondness.

He thought he had done well, until he overheard a heated conversation between Francis and Arthur not a week after the fact wherein Francis cursed at Arthur for his treatment.

He had no idea what to do when treated gently, Francis had asserted as Arthur sipped his tea, and had been very difficult to bed. He reacted to a sweet caress as if it had been a threat, or he showed his eyeteeth before a kiss.

He denied himself orgasm, Francis had said with his arms in the air and eyes to the sky. He had refused the delights of the experience.

Alfred remembered his big brother's attentive questioning as they sat wrapped in Francis' silk sheets. Francis wanted to know why, and Alfred had told him the truth: an orgasm was defenseless, an admission of powerless abandon. To pleasure himself was one thing, but to allow another person to take control of his body that way was unwise, dangerous, even if just for a few seconds. Francis had drooped so wretchedly that Alfred had promised him he'd try, just for him, and his brother had smiled with dark eyes. He told Alfred that he was meant to be a superpower, and to lie back and relax. Alfred had fulfilled his promise with difficulty. Francis forgave him without reservation.

He allowed himself orgasm with Francis every meeting after that first admission. Francis was his only partner to see those few seconds of sweet weakness, and Alfred gained the reputation of being a generous lover, a man who asked for nothing for himself. The reputation protected him and fed his righteous ego.

Then Ivan had shattered him.

The intensity of their shared hatred was poison. It fouled Alfred's mind, twisted his morals, and turned him into a feral beast on more than one occasion, the worst of which was that night outside of Moscow. Ivan admitted that neither of them knew the security cameras still worked. No one ever found out who leaked the footage, or why, but Alfred suspected China. He'd never made an accusation.

Matthew had leaned closer to Francis, and Francis had smiled as though forgiving Alfred for something he didn't understand was wrong. Even Arthur, who thought he'd seen the worst of the young nation during his revolution, had been visibly shaken, appalled when the true voracity of the fighting came to light.

Alfred saw himself covered in blood, limping, grinning from ear to ear as he chewed and spit a piece of Ivan's arm onto the icy floor of the warehouse. A hysterical laugh echoed, and Alfred saw the sound coming from his own mouth. Ivan mocked him with a black scowl, twirling his pipe, and a spray of Alfred's blood steamed as it struck the frosted walls. Their clothing was torn, their bodies were freezing, and Alfred had felt more alive than he'd ever been.

It was ruined when he saw Mattie's face pale.

He'd turned then to Ivan, who sat in his chair with an air of satisfaction, and told the gigantic Russian that he was going to drag him back to hell where he belonged. Ivan had beamed like a child. They had found one another after the meeting in the cover of London's darkness and fought again, but the ending had been different. Alfred had been out of his mind with guilt and rage and wasn't thinking rationally. When Ivan pinned him with his knees to the cobblestone alley and licked a long wet slug trail up the side of his face to taste his hysterical tears, Alfred had dared him to do something he could write home about. Half-insane with guilt and rage, Alfred defied Ivan to hurt him, bleed him, _fuck_ him like a man.

Alfred found himself snarling insults, clawing the arm that choked him and kicking at Ivan's hips as he positioned himself right there on the rain-soaked stones. His vision had been blurred by tears and grey clouds of unconsciousness, and gutter water soaked the back of his shirt. He had been so tired and so angry, and so paralyzingly ashamed of himself.

He had expected pain, he had _wanted_ to hurt, and Ivan delivered. He fucked him raw and ripped him; he bloodied his clothes and the street drain. The pain had been singularly overpowering, and Alfred had been grateful for the fingers that depressed his tongue and muffled his crying.

His nose was sore after, and he tasted pennies when he swallowed. The rain felt cold on his exposed skin. The night was quiet save for his panting breaths, which curled around his lips like smoke in the chill London air. The sky was black and clear, and the stars were beautiful.

All he could see was the disgust on his brothers' faces. Exhausted, bleeding, and humiliated, Alfred had done something he'd never done before: he laid back on the street and simply accepted his defeat.

Clicking his tongue, amused by his agony, Ivan had licked Alfred's saliva clean from his fingers and told him that he was attractive. Gazing up at him through bangs soaked with water and sweat, Alfred allowed himself a moment of respect for Ivan's complete lack of shame, and wished he could feel the same. He'd grinned and told Ivan he was a decent lay.

Ivan levered his hip and flipped him onto his knees, and the sky had opened in a downpour. Alfred came with his face in a puddle of cool murky water and Ivan's fingers curled around the back of his neck and his cock. The orgasm bleached the night and silenced the pounding of the rain. It had been one of the most intense experiences Alfred ever had.

The fight stopped there. Ivan left him shivering in a pool of blood, water, and mixed semen with a sardonic wave and a mock salute. Two weeks later, Alfred had dared him to do it again, and Ivan had bent Alfred over a desk in an empty room during their meeting break and whispered in detail what would happen if they were found. After that meeting, neither of them bothered to count each rendezvous. The battle for power that had always been part of them changed, and they followed recklessly, consumed by their hunger.

As he pushed Ivan away, Alfred wondered if they had both been blind to the shift in their equilibrium. Did Ivan stop to consider how ridiculous it was that Alfred kept a toothbrush at his sink, that the left side of the couch was Alfred's Seat, that the blanket draped over the cushions had Alfred's last name scribbled on the tag?

But he'd angered Ivan, and Ivan would hurt him, and everything could go back to the way it had been. He could kick and claw and Ivan would take him prostrate on the floor, and then he could walk away knowing that he had been right to leave. Ivan was talented, but awkward. He couldn't fake affection.

Alfred flinched, covering his face with his arms, as Ivan moved. He might slam a stone fist into his stomach, but it was better than breaking his nose for the hundredth time, and Ivan's hand was fisting in his hair, and his long fingers wrapped around Alfred's forearms and pulled down his guard—

Alfred's eyes widened behind his glasses as Ivan used a light hand to tilt his head back, lower his guard, and return to where they had been without so much as a frown. His wide azure gaze met Ivan's violet stare. He made no second attempt to escape. Ivan drank his fill, leaving the boy disturbed and shaking, and prompted the next tantrum.

He traced the outline of Alfred's ear with the bridge of his nose, sighed, and murmured, "I am so glad you came back to me, Fredka. I miss you when you are gone."

Alfred set his shoulders against the wall to prevent Ivan from pressing himself to his body, but he trembled. Ivan's voice rumbled like thunder, and his breath curled coolly around the shell of his ear, his throat, his jawline.

"I will be gentle, angel." Ivan spoke between openmouthed kisses he placed over the jumping pulse below his jaw. "I will treat you well."

Alfred's body quaked as if it wanted to shake into pieces all over the floor. It occurred to him that he still didn't know what he'd agreed to do, and the thought that Russia might try to take him was horrifying. Could he do that without beating him to death? He hadn't told anyone where he would be or when he planned to be back. No one knew he was with Russia. It would be days before anyone realized he was missing.

"What are you doing? What are you going to do?" Alfred stumbled over the words and shoved at him, but Ivan was like marble. Where had his strength gone? Cool hands massaged the muscles above the cleft in his lower back, thumbs kneading his sensitive sides. His sweater cooked him, but Ivan's hands were always so cold, and the contrast was striking. "Get off me. _Stop_."

Alfred's heel struck the wall as he pranced in place. Ivan frowned above his head where the boy couldn't see. He kept his grip on Alfred's trim waist and pressed his knee firmly into the wall between his legs. "Hush, Fredka. We will wait here until you are calm."

Every movement brushed him against Ivan's thigh, and the stimulation was both distracting and unwelcome. He was pinned to the wall like a bug on display for Ivan's amusement, but Ivan only held him still and waited for him to exhaust himself. He should be able to move, Alfred thought. He was stronger than Ivan. He should be able to free himself from his unnervingly light grip. Where had his strength gone?

Ivan pressed kisses to his throat, raised the knee between his legs to a place he couldn't ignore, and exposed several inches of the tanned stomach beneath his sweater to the hallway air, still chilled from the constant opening of the front door. He wasn't even trying. Where had his strength _gone_?

"Don't," Alfred heard himself say as he vainly tried to twist free, "don't, please."

Ivan traced a feather-light fingernail down the length of his spine, drawing him away from the wall and into his arms as Alfred tried to escape the touch. Ivan was the wrong person to beg for mercy. Pleas for mercy only made him crueler, gave him power to abuse. Alfred knew better. Ivan marveled at how quickly his defiant boy had unwound and decided to thank Francis, perhaps with a gift. His advice had been astoundingly insightful.

"Don't, I can't. I can't go now." Alfred's hands clutched at his sleeves, and he met Ivan's eyes with an expression so open and raw—eyes wet with stubbornly unshed tears, cheeks flushed with heat—that he might have been a stranger. Ivan's stomach flipped, and he felt himself drawn to the virginal expression on his sunflower's youthful face. Uncertain and pure. He felt his cock twitch.

The boy expected to be undone. A miscommunication that surely was his own fault. But—had he agreed to stay even if Ivan took him as part of himself? Had that been part of the bargain Alfred thought he'd made? He had not expected such willing submission this century, certainly not tonight. Heat curled low in his abdomen as he envisioned those damp cerulean eyes fading into death and he had to breathe deeply to contain his rising… anticipation.

Interesting. And sorely tempting, but—he reminded himself sternly—the time was not yet right. Alfred had much ripening to do before Ivan would pluck him from the soil, and then he would feast. Tonight he caged more tender fare.

"Brave boy." Ivan said.

Alfred felt his panic rise with the heat in Ivan's eyes. He swore something demonic lived behind that face, something unfeeling, something that knew to hide behind a pleasantly impassive mask.

"There will be time for that." Ivan murmured, and took another drugging drink of sunlight that gasped when he was done. "But not for several hundred years, Alfred. Not tonight."

"Several… hundred years?" Alfred repeated as he tugged Ivan's arms.

"Perhaps a century." Ivan amended in the interest of honesty. "Believe this."

"Why should I?" Alfred fisted a hand in Ivan's scarf. Behind him, the living area was dim and cold, and seemed to pull at Ivan's shadow. The open door to Ivan's bedroom gathered darkness like a toothless maw. They stood beneath the only light in the house. The thought was unnerving.

"Because," Ivan traced the exposed blue vein in Alfred's wrist with a lazy finger, "you are beautiful, Alfred, but you are not complete. So beautiful." Distracted, Ivan brought Alfred's wrist to his mouth and sucked.

Alfred turned away, eyes closed tightly. Ivan regarded his reddening cheeks, lapping his pulse with his tongue, and immobilized the captured wrist beside his head.

"Would you prefer if I beat you to submission?" He licked the salty sweat from the side of Alfred's neck. When the boy could only shake his head with his lips pressed firmly together, he amended, "Of course you would."

Ivan wrapped his hand around both of the boy's wrists, pinned them to the wall, and tilted Alfred's face upward with a single finger. "Look at me, boy."

Alfred had difficulty opening his eyes, but when their gazes met, his stare was even.

"Why did you come back here?" Ivan lifted his head so he could speak. "You knew the risk."

"Because I had to tell the truth."

The set of that jaw, those harshly drawn eyebrows. Truly, the boy was a gift. Ivan resisted the urge to adjust himself and lowered his head to inhale deeply of Alfred's scent on his damp sweater. Warmth, gunpowder, wheat. "You will tell me other truths."

He took Texas from the boy's face.

"Hey!" Alfred's voice rose sharply, and he jerked against Ivan's restraining hand. "Russia! No!"

Alfred became savage when in protection of his states, and Ivan loved the feral twist to the boy's handsome features. Too much time had passed since he'd seen that lascivious expression.

He tucked Texas away into the folds of his scarf, which shifted around his neck as if waking from sleep and slithered in a shush of fabric down his leg and onto the floor. Alfred cursed at him, and Ivan was forced to use both hands to contain his struggling while his favorite tool finished its task.

Alfred watched as the scarf crossed the threshold into the living area and vanished into the darkness, then turned his fury on Ivan. "You son of a _bitch_ , you give that back!"

One layer at a time, Ivan thought, one tantrum at a time. Perhaps each tantrum would be more ferocious than the last. The idea annoyed him. "Texas will be safe, Alfred. I will put it on the table for when you are ready to leave. Look."

He released his arms, and Alfred shook loose of his grip with a scowl. He shoved past Ivan into the living area, and Ivan turned on the light.

There on the table sat Texas, folded parallel to the edge of the wood. Alfred inspected them carefully for a single scratch on the lenses or a minute bend in the wire frame. He found nothing. And the scarf was nowhere to be seen.

Ivan turned out the light in the hallway with a _click_ and followed Alfred's footsteps into the living area. Alfred watched him warily, Texas loose in his hands and acutely aware how dark and silent the house was around them. The only light in the house stayed on Alfred, wherever he moved, and it was disconcerting.

Slowly Ivan approached the boy, and slowly he traced his fingers down Alfred's arms where Texas hung in his grip. He cupped Alfred's hands around the glasses, closing them in a protective sphere, and pressed his lips to the exposed curve of Alfred's shoulder. He kept his voice low and soft, and spoke closely into his ear. "Come to me, Fredka. Leave it and come to me."

Whatever Alfred had expected when he'd run back to Ivan's house, coughing out frozen air, he could not have expected this. He stared at the couch—his spot on the couch—as Ivan nuzzled his shoulder and throat. How many nights had he spent in that spot, legs interwoven with Russia's, and shared a pizza out of the box? How many nights had he spread his legs and invited Ivan to try and take him? How many mistakes had they made to have wandered stupidly into such a bizarre place?

"I hate you." He said, and the words hung heavy on the room.

"No." Ivan said. "You do not."

"You hate me."

Ivan's hands had begun to explore his body as if he'd never touched him before, had never beaten him senseless, twisted his arm behind his back, and fucked him into the floor beside the couch right where they stood. A large palm slipped into his sweater to press his shirt against his abdomen, his sternum, his throat. He hummed in Alfred's ear. "Because I am not you."

Alfred's gut clenched, hard. Ivan trailed his fingers over the muscles there, dipped lower into his waistband, left him tight and breathless. "What are you going to do to me?"

Alfred succumbed to his fingers, leaned back into his body, set his head on Ivan's shoulder. Ivan felt himself tipping over the edge of a precipice and forced himself to breathe in and out. He smiled into the soft flesh behind Alfred's ear. "I am going to try something new, Alfred, because you have come back to me. Not all things weather the test of time."

He hadn't said it—what would be the point, when the truth was so plainly engraved in the way Ivan caressed the body he'd bruised—but Alfred felt a crushing possibility bearing down on them. "How long have you known?"

"There is nothing to know, Fredka, not yet." Ivan inhaled the scent of arousal that rose from the boy's heat. "No promises to be made, no gossip. No eyes. You, and me. As it has always been."

" _Damn it_." Alfred breathed in one long exhale. His eyelids fluttered closed. "You always know what to do."

 _He was so close._ Ivan's heart jumped in his chest, and a surge of adrenaline squeezed his belly. He forced himself to speak evenly, to keep his voice as mesmeric as he could. "Put it down, Alfred. Come to me."

He pressed his fingers into Alfred's sides when the boy bent to lay Texas carefully on the table, rewarded him with the lightest of touches. Alfred turned in his arms and tucked himself under his shoulder.

Alfred settled his head onto Ivan's chest and closed his arms around the taller man's middle. Ivan didn't sway, didn't tilt him up for a kiss, didn't touch him beneath his clothes. He was solid, still, and cool to the touch.

Then one arm closed around his waist and the other cradled the back of his head, intertwining pale fingers and blonde hair. It was a hug, Alfred thought. A firm, bewildering, paternal hug between two mortal enemies who had tried to exterminate each other more often than not. They accepted the night's turn on faith. At least, he did.

He was definitely an idiot. But, he thought with a grimace, at least he wasn't alone. He broke apart from Ivan, who laid his fingers on the small of his back and directed him into the darkened bedroom.

Alfred was not new to Ivan's bedroom, but he might as well have been. He felt awkward and uncomfortable with the change of pace, questioned the not-promises Ivan made. This was the man who tried to destroy him; this was the man who everyone feared; this was the man who he'd hated so fiercely that he'd poisoned himself with madness. He couldn't remember what life was like before he and Ivan had learned to take out their aggression in the bedroom; he also doubted Ivan ever had boring old vanilla sex. He didn't even like it, and he was a nice guy. Alfred held himself and watched Ivan's outline by the door.

Ivan closed the bedroom door, latched it with unsteady fingers, forced himself to contain his exhilaration as he checked the window bolt and closed the curtains. Alfred must not know the passion that exploded through his veins, must not fear that Ivan could not control himself while his defenses were compromised. His sunflower waited in the darkness to be deflowered anew, and he must not bruise him. To harm him now would be a sin, a stain on a flawless victory and on every triumph to come.

Alfred was young, and his spirit was particularly resilient. For every moment that passed Alfred would rebuild his anxieties and fears, would step away from Ivan. He needed to move with efficiency if he was to regain the ground he'd already lost. Lust and carnal thirst met in his blood, a familiar cocktail that steadied his breathing and sharpened his mind. Alfred would be seizing, breathless, chanting his name before the sun rose over the city. He had trapped his prey.

He listened, and his scarf shifted beneath the bed. It would be ready should he need to use it, but he must not spook the boy. He must use restraints only when absolutely necessary, and avoid their use until Alfred proved too spirited to be otherwise controlled. His heart beat a steady rhythm: Alfred, Alfred, Alfred. No, tonight would be a pleasure for them both.

He wasn't crazy: the air in the bedroom dropped several degrees when the white light of the streetlights outside vanished behind Ivan's blackout curtains. Alfred shook his head just an inch to each side, completely blind and at Ivan's mercy. Years ago, he would have been a dead man.

They were unfamiliar with intimacy. They shared no post-coital cuddles, no sunny mornings in bed, no reassurances that the sex had been good for both parties. They didn't care, and that honest unkindness was their first middle ground. Unkindness had been their undoing, Alfred thought, because between the _get off me, you're disgusting_ and the _clean yourself up, whore_ they had left too much empty room for something else to grow. After that came _are you hungry, fatass_ and _go get me a blanket, you sick fuck_ and _hand me that vodka_ , and then other things followed. Things that felt like a warm bag of takeout and knuckles on the door. Things that sounded like _I want player one_. Things that looked like two people who had nowhere else to go, and didn't bother to pretend they did.

The realization came to Ivan that he had never hated Alfred at all, not with any real prejudice. Alfred had once despised him. The boy's passions burned hot, and burned out. He was too young to know how to hold a grudge, too decent, too wholesome. When Alfred's fires had died, Ivan's fire also had cooled into coals. When Alfred came to him in search of quick release with peace offerings of company and dessert and entertainment, even those coals lost their crimson heat. All that remained was the principle of the thing. Alfred was stubborn, and Ivan was hard-hearted, but they had agreed in the silences between their words to a secret armistice which could not be shared or explained, but left unwritten in quiet nights better spent together than alone, in pretense that he couldn't see Alfred crying over some small thing, in sex that no longer needed to be justified by pain.

He was getting old, Ivan thought, and spared a moment to appreciate China's elderly candor. He was beginning to understand the nihilism brought about by too much time spent watching humanity grow and die.

How could he have been expected to deny such a creature as Alfred? He was made for Ivan, solely to destroy Ivan, to match him in power and then taunt him with sunny laughter and easy camaraderie and tight, bronzed skin and all the things Ivan could never have. Alfred was the pedestal through which all things good and right could be seen, and he had been given fangs and strength and spirit in plenty to defend them. He was both a challenge and an art, an irresistible torment, and to threaten his freedom with the strings of emotional attachment was forbidden to the likes of frigid, wicked Ivan.

Alfred was the first to speak his confessions. Alfred was not forbidden to him now. Darkness pooled around him, waited to swallow him whole. Ivan lifted the boy's hand to his lips to murmur, "You are a work of art, Alfred."

Alfred's long, low exhale was loud in the quiet of the room. His breath quavered. "Christ."

Ivan twisted their intertwined fingers behind the small of Alfred's back, and the boy tightened his grip. He laid his other hand on Ivan's arm and offered absolutely no resistance to the kiss that followed. Ivan couldn't help himself. Alfred, his Alfred. He tasted like the sun.

How much time had they wasted _not_ kissing? Alfred stepped into the familiar shape of Ivan's body, dazed by the glide of a cold tongue against his own. Ivan's fingers curled around the back of his neck and Alfred fell forward as if leaping from a building with no idea where he might land. Cradled in Ivan's wide shoulder, blind and hopeful, he relaxed and allowed Ivan to do as he pleased.

He let go.

Alfred was putty in his hands, compliant and warm and so eager to be taken. He admired the boy's capacity to open himself to anyone, to trust him of all people. Faith was a thing Ivan had long since forgotten, or perhaps had never known. Yet another pillar of Alfred's strength he could not understand.

He did not need to understand the appeal of faith to bring Alfred to shivering completion again and again, to taste his own name in that willing mouth. Alfred's thigh rested flush against his, and he balked.

Ivan greedily dragged him closer, felt the beginnings of arousal in his jeans, broke the kiss that had muzzled the boy so well. "No more trembling, Fredka." He placed open-mouthed kisses along his jaw as gently as he knew how.

Alfred rested his head against Ivan's collarbone. Ivan's body was a symbol of violence. His every movement drove Alfred's instincts screaming to fight or flight. Ivan's shirt was soft as he brushed a hand along the curved muscle of his bicep and brought it to rest on his heavy chest. His body warred against his will, and the trembling continued.

Ivan returned to his exploration of the places beneath his sweater, but Alfred kept his hand behind his back and nuzzled the bridge of his nose into Ivan's shoulder. That obnoxious thing in his pants protested its confines, but Ivan inhaled deeply to calm himself. He had already taken Alfred many times in search of his own release. How wrong he would be to disregard Alfred's condition when the boy came to him with confessions on his tongue and obeyed his direction so trustingly.

Ivan treated his body with the efficiency of the German soldier and the discipline so highly regarded by the Asian countries. It was a tool that provided him with protection and survivability, so he treated it well; it was not attractive, but scarred and toughened by centuries of battle and Siberian winters. This did not concern Ivan: for all his faults, he was not vain. But Alfred—Alfred was a masterwork of form and function. He was lithe from head to toe, well-muscled and well-proportioned, confidently male and radiant with life from every tanned pore. He was too young to have built a resilience to pain, and he bled so prettily, cried so easily. He was perfect. To have him was an honor every time. To have him resting on his shoulder, eager to be pleasured—was overwhelming.

His heart wailed with passion. Ivan held the boy's ribcage between his hands, and thought that his heart beat just beneath. He felt each forced breath and promised himself that Alfred would lose his anxiety soon, and would accept him back between his legs anew, without reservation. But he must _be gentle._ He must demonstrate what he couldn't speak.

God, when had Ivan learned how to touch people like that? He wrapped his hands around Alfred's torso like he wanted to hold all of him at once. He traced every curve of his back and massaged each muscle with every finger. And none of it hurt. As a matter of fact, Alfred's pants tightened a little, and they were both still clothed in layers.

Ivan lifted his sweater up over his stomach, and Alfred obliged. He tugged off both the stifling hoodie and the shirt underneath, balled them up, and threw the clothes at the floor beneath the window. Ivan's hands were on his body before he could complain that he felt exposed in the dark, and he continued to touch Alfred like he'd never seen him before. Staggered, Alfred wrapped his arms around Ivan's neck and enjoyed the attention.

"Oh, Alfred. You are a masterpiece." Ivan told him with such sincerity that Alfred felt his face turn crimson. His pants became much tighter. His stomach fluttered.

"Jesus Christ, what the hell has gotten into you." Ivan sucked at the pulse beneath his jaw and Alfred lost his train of thought. He let his head fall backward and clutched at Ivan for balance, burying one hand deep in his snowy hair, and Ivan bent him further to do unholy things to his exposed neckline. "Oh my god."

He wanted to throw him to the floor and rip at him, bite to tear and fuck him raw. Ivan settled for provoking the growth of Alfred's hardening erection against his upper thigh and was pleased when Alfred's breath caught.

"Have I never told you how beautiful you are, boy?" He spoke into Alfred's collarbone and felt his chest heave. "You are a gift from the heavens."

Ivan whispered seductive things, caressed him, confidently pressed his leg against Alfred's pants. Alfred felt the heat of his body rising and was glad the room was cold. He thought steam might lift from his skin if Ivan turned on the light. It was all too unfamiliar, too alarmingly tender—his gut cried that it was a trap, and that he was in danger.

"Wait, wait." He struggled to stand on his own feet, pushed at Ivan, fought for a moment of freedom. "I can't, hang on."

Another tantrum? Perhaps he should not speak. Ivan felt his fury rise, but he had come too far to lose his temper with his capricious flower. He could not risk that Alfred would reject him, not until he was finished. He reluctantly allowed Alfred to stand, but did not release him. He would not release him. "Is something wrong?"

"N-No, not—no." Alfred kicked himself for stuttering. He could feel Ivan's eyes on him in the dark and quailed, just a little. "I'm just—I want to, I do."

"Good." Ivan said, and swept Alfred's outside ankle with his heel. They collided, and Alfred caught himself before he bounced off the edge of the mattress.

"Hey," he tried to complain, but Ivan levered him onto the bed. "Hey!"

So fickle, his Alfred. Ivan decided that he would be amused rather than enraged. He pressed his thumb into the back of Alfred's knee, lifted his legs to prevent him from kicking, and gazed down at the boy from the edge of the bed. His eyes were opened wide, searching for Ivan's shape in the dark, and he'd raised one placating hand between them. He looked frightened, Ivan thought, and closed his teeth on his lower lip to distract himself.

Ivan stood above him and held his legs so that he couldn't roll or sit. Alfred's heart pounded— _danger, danger_ —but Ivan only stroked the back of his knee with a finger and leaned down, folding him into a helpless ball.

"Hush, Fredka." Ivan murmured from directly above him. His hair brushed Alfred's temple, and he couldn't find even a hint of anger in his tone. Only equanimity. "I promise that I will treat you well."

Alfred narrowed his eyes as they adjusted to the darkness. Ivan had no interest in Alfred's happy ending. He didn't care whether or not Alfred was satisfied by the end of their rendezvous. Ivan liked to torture him. Ivan liked to torment him, control him, twist him against his own pride until Alfred begged for release, to be fucked like a whore and to come, gasping, into Ivan's hand. Several times he'd left Alfred stranded in an empty office five minutes before meetings resumed with a raging hard-on and Ivan's seed dripping down the back of his legs.

Actually, Alfred thought, it had been a long time since they'd felt the need to have sex anywhere but their homes. There had been quiet nights when Alfred pulled off his shirt and invited Ivan to try and take him right there on the couch, and Ivan had squeezed the base of his cock until he was finished, then turned on Alfred. His thoughts returned to the hallway, then the living area where he'd found Texas right where Ivan promised it would be, then to the generous things Ivan had whispered moments before.

He swallowed what he had been going to say and fell back onto the mattress, staring at the ceiling and twisting the blanket in his hands. He was an idiot. He was stupid. "Oh, God."

"Good boy," Ivan murmured, and Alfred clenched his eyes shut as a wave of apprehension rolled like electricity up his spine. Regrettably, that same wave of electricity had very different effect on his pants. He scrubbed his face with both hands and tried to breathe evenly as Ivan continued to use his mouth on his collarbone, his chest, his stomach. His big palms smoothed over crisp jeans to his hips, where he stroked Alfred's bare hipbones to make him twitch.

With the passing of every tiny revolution, Alfred fell more passive under his hands. Ivan laid his mouth on Alfred's taut abdomen with no small appreciation for the supple body that twisted beneath him, thankful for his sense of self-discipline. He must stay calm, or Alfred would not, and then his monumental effort would have been for nothing.

He shushed Alfred between kisses as the boy writhed away from his hands, and Alfred began to whisper curses under his breath. Ivan looked up to see that he'd hidden himself behind both arms and smiled. _Le toucher doux._ Perhaps he should send Francis a written letter of gratitude. He applied pressure to the nerve clusters beside Alfred's hipbones, and the boy inhaled sharply and arched his spine. What gift could appropriately express the appreciation he felt for the sight below him? Maybe he should send Francis on vacation.


	3. Chapter 3

Ivan reached the delicate flesh above Alfred's jeans and ran his tongue broadly along the unprotected skin. Alfred cussed, then groaned from behind his arms. Ivan flicked his tongue over his teeth. The bulge in his jeans suggested that Alfred was fully erect, and he did like that.

How excruciating it had been to realize that Alfred genuinely liked everyone, including himself. Alfred's companionable attitude, at their first meeting, had been fascinating; he had been wrong. His attitude was insufferable, and scraped Ivan's unsociable personality like diamond on glass. He had considered eating Alfred alive just for the sake of removing him from existence. Unfortunately, he had been forced to align with America instead.

It had been easy to manipulate the boy into hatred, and that made his sunny presence more bearable. But the ultimate personal blow had come when Ivan overheard a private conversation, the object of which angered him like nothing before: that Alfred found his stature, his piercing eyes, and his cunning mind _attractive_. Ivan could not contain his rage. The Cold War began not long after that unlucky happenstance.

Ivan was no child. He was honest with himself. He wanted to hate Alfred because he was jealous, and Alfred had the nerve to try to befriend him, to want to emulate parts of what Ivan had become. He had the audacity to admire the wreckage of a man that stood in his boots, and that was too much for Ivan to accept. Alfred twisted his mind and his cock, and he tried foolishly to take his heart too. He had gloated in the knowledge that he had no heart to take.

But he hadn't anticipated that Alfred would be so damned charming. Even he had fallen under the influence of America's not-inconsiderable power. But he had earned a prize in their skirmishes, and that prize was Alfred's body beneath him. He'd intended only to isolate Alfred from his brothers, but the security footage from their struggle in Moscow proved more valuable than he could have imagined. He suspected that guilt drove Alfred's mind to snap, or maybe the inexperienced youth hadn't realized what a monster he'd become in that warehouse and the sight of his handsome face warped into a feral scream had been too much for his arrogant psyche to bear. He'd jumped Ivan behind the building, and in losing the fight, he'd goaded Ivan into something appalling.

The moment he'd realized what it was that Alfred wanted him to do was _euphoric_. He knew the boy had eyes for him, and he'd considered the option himself on more than one dark occasion, but hadn't managed the opportunity. The knowledge that Alfred _wanted_ to lose such a carnal battle for dominance, had chosen _him_ , drove him to heights he hadn't known since the very summit of his power. A terse exchange passed between them, and then Ivan had his way, and Alfred had offered puny resistance. He'd even criticized him after.

The memory was too much for him still. Ivan distracted Alfred with his tongue and the hollow threat of teeth until he could tolerate the throbbing ache between his legs.

The Cold War was signed into history, but passions remained. Ivan and Alfred fought at every opportunity. Common knowledge came to be that neither was allowed alone without supervision. No parking lot, hallway, empty room, or crowded street was safe. There could be no haven for one while the other survived. The truth, of course, was that not every battle ended in blood. If the mood took them, they settled their disputes in other ways.

Ivan journeyed unhurriedly back to Alfred's throat. He released the button of Alfred's jeans and slipped his fingers below the wetness of saliva. "Let me feel you, Fredka. Do not be troubled."

Alfred muttered something about Jesus and nodded. Before Ivan he couldn't have imagined how it felt to fuck someone who was always ten degrees too cold to be alive, but it was damn good. Ivan slipped a hand into his boxer shorts and traced the curve of his backside with light fingers. His hands were a relief on his superheated skin, and then his pants were on the floor.

Alfred may not have been paying attention, but Ivan knew to watch the patterns of time. The decline began when restraining hands and panicked shouts for peace became silent meetings of the eyes over the table, conversations about time and place that were over in seconds. Then the secret visits—not many times at first, but enough to become an unspoken question between them, a fresh note to air that had been filled with only loathing for so very many years. Alfred continued to request his time, and Alfred was an amazing fuck, so Ivan agreed as often as he was able. Months passed into years, years into decades.

Then Ivan came upon the boy behind a fast food restaurant one black December night in New York, and America had asked him to fire a bullet into his brain. He was angry when Ivan denied him, which Ivan thought was understandable, and the course of their history changed. The Cold War provided Ivan with the means to break Alfred's mind and body, and to discover that Alfred suffered the same miseries and self-disgust as the rest of the nations cleared the dregs of wrath from Ivan's eyes. He provided Alfred with honest advice and Alfred seemed to take it.

Ivan used both hands to stimulate him, and Alfred bit down hard on his knuckle to contain himself. Ivan was incredible with his hands, but Alfred's thoughts circled around one reality: Ivan had never, not _once_ , attended to him first. He covered his eyes and struggled for poise, but he was already so hard and Ivan did that thing with his finger—

"If you don't stop that I'm gonna come," he blurted through his hands. Ivan was angry when Alfred came first, and Alfred was pretty sure he'd gone full crackerjack somewhere in the last two weeks anyway. Ivan was unhinged on the best of days, and he was acting far too nice to be okay.

Ivan moved his hand away, and Alfred released a breath of relief and frustration— _and Ivan licked him from base to tip and sucked—_

Alfred shot up like an arrow and curled his body over his lap, eyes closed tightly and mouth open in shock and pleasure as Ivan used his mouth in a way he hadn't ever before. Alfred buried his hands in soft white hair and released a stream of curses that would have made Arthur blush, and Ivan's throat worked around the tip and his hips bucked and he spat out a warning that went completely ignored—

Alfred's hands twisted the blanket into knots and he felt Ivan suck and slurp the last few drops right out of him, and he stared at the ceiling with his back arched and his mouth open and rode the wave until he could cuss. " _Fuck_."

He could hear Ivan laughing, a deep, ominous laugh he hadn't heard in years. He licked a line right up his navel and praised him again. "Good boy."

Ivan's hands were reluctant to leave his thighs, but Alfred pulled himself into a seated position in the nest he'd made of the blankets and said, "Who are you and what have you done with Russia?"

How stimulating to know that Alfred allowed no other person to exploit his weaknesses. He envied the boy's virulence. He was so young, with eyes already glazed by such fleeting pleasure and cheeks blushed by the slightest attention. Alfred always had been an enthusiastic slut, had always been easy to please. First Alfred's body would succumb, then his mind. And then Ivan would finish what he'd so carefully started.

"I promised to treat you well, _da_?" He couldn't bear the space between them. He had fasted for weeks without Alfred's warmth, and he was ravenous for the flavor fresh on his tongue. He could move slowly for Alfred's sake, he could savor the body that had been withheld from him, but he could not stop. Alfred's night would be grueling. He would be unforgiving in his administrations.

The thirst for blood left them as years passed, and they exchanged pipes and bullets for harmless bruises and scornful insults not meant to be taken seriously. Drunk on vodka and the cover of night, Alfred would challenge Ivan to their questionable game, or perhaps Ivan would set his bottle on the table with a _click_ and a vulgar proposal, and the combat would begin. Equally matched and baring white teeth, they would grapple for control with nothing at stake but their masculine pride and the occasional broken nose or finger. The game ended when Ivan was buried inside him to the hilt, and not a moment before; Alfred was strong-willed, and to be pinned and punished was not enough to break him of his vanity. He would fight for freedom while Ivan prepared him. Ivan would lick his fingers and Alfred would pretend not to feel a thrill. And when Ivan finally entered him, Alfred would bow his head and readily surrender, as they both knew he would. The remaining combat would be written in _right there_ and _Christ Jesus_ and _fuck you_ , which meant something different than the very first time it had been said.

It was his game, not Ivan's—though Ivan was a sick bully and got hot beating him down—and Alfred could count on one hand the number of times they'd fucked without the game of submission. Those nights he had come to visit Ivan after a long flight, maybe in tears, and Ivan took advantage of his fatigue with firm commands and a cuff upside the head if he was obstinate. He would turn Alfred onto his hands and knees, ignore his half-hearted complaints, and work him until Alfred was so hard it hurt. They never spoke afterwards, and Alfred showered first. Alfred never admitted that he felt better. Neither acknowledged what they both knew: that the fighting became secondary to the fucking, and not the other way around. Alfred couldn't admit it out loud, and if Ivan realized, he never brought the matter to light.

Ivan was a black mass with ancient eyes at the edge of the bed. Big hands spread his thighs, and the mattress gave way beneath his weight. Alfred found himself shrinking away from the panther with frosted breath that crept into the space between his legs and eclipsed the room around them. His stomach clenched and he inhaled a wave of the cold air that left Ivan's lungs, unable to escape that violet stare.

They knew each other well, better than anyone else. Alfred knew Ivan's favorite weapons, his weakest defenses, his most vicious attacks. Ivan's brutality was imprinted in every traumatized cell of his body, and Alfred knew in the marrow in his bones that he could never let down his guard around him. His survival instinct just wouldn't allow him to relax.

But then Ivan had told him to go with a broken expression that hurt his chest. He had kissed him, then kissed him again. He had asked him to stay, held him, caressed him, told him he was beautiful. Because he'd come back to tell the truth. Because—maybe Francis had been right. Maybe Ivan needed to hear that part about his heart. Maybe something _was_ there.

He tasted himself on Ivan's tongue. The kisses were kryptonite, he thought. Maybe he was just gullible. Ivan lifted his leg to tuck Alfred's ankle underneath his shoulder and Ivan's fingers brushed his wrist—

Alfred's fist connected before he realized he'd swung, and he tried to free himself before Ivan could complete the body lock Alfred thought he'd started. But Ivan crushed his wrist in an iron grip and twisted, and Alfred cried out in pain.

Ivan caught the arm that opened his jaw and pinned it above Alfred's head, crushing his other arm in a wrist lock that must have hurt him. He wove a leg around one of Alfred's and closed down on the boy's knee, and with the other ankle trapped beneath Ivan's arm, Alfred could no longer struggle.

Alfred's heart pounded in panic. Ivan had been kissing him, _kissing_ him, and he hauled out and punched him. He could see in the darkness that Ivan was bleeding where he had struck, and his eyes overflowed with guilt and dread. He'd drawn blood. He'd drawn blood, and Ivan had been treating him with such unexpected patience. He'd drawn blood, and he'd ruined everything about the moment, and Ivan would kick his ass. The thought that Ivan would have to hit him after he'd been trying so hard to express himself was horrifying. "Oh Christ, I'm sorry!"

A droplet of blood crawled down his jawline, and Ivan felt wrath. For weeks he'd waited for Alfred to return to him, half expecting to be cast aside like a discarded whore, humiliated by the boy's audacity. He'd spent over an hour preparing him for the smallest attentions, ignoring his temper tantrums and pretending he couldn't feel the demanding ache in his pants, and his patience ran low. In seconds Alfred destroyed what had taken him nearly an hour to accomplish. The boy deserved his lenience, it was true, but only so much. For a long minute he held Alfred beneath him and hung his head, waiting for his composure to return.

Alfred twisted and began to cry, though his eyebrows drew together in threat. As calmly as he could manage with fury constricted in his throat, he asked, "Why did you do that?"

Ivan's voice was cold and measured and cruel and horribly familiar, and Alfred's gut told him he'd ruined everything, and that in seconds he'd be fighting for his life. Tears ran hot tracks down the side of his head. "I'm sorry, I panicked, I thought you were going for a body lock!"

Blood dripped from the cut in Ivan's pale jaw onto the sheets beside his head. Alfred's skin crawled, but trapped as he was, he could only watch Ivan's expression shift rapidly from fury to mirth and then to blankness.

"Ivan, please," he said, fighting the urge to kick and scream. "I know you're trying to be nice, man, and I'm sorry. Stay calm, okay?" Ivan's eyes met his, and for a heart-stopping moment Alfred thought he'd chosen the wrong words. "You can hurt me tomorrow, man, but please don't hurt me right now. I'm messed up, my fault."

His sunflower's face betrayed his fear. His rage cooled into amusement, then to guilt. Of course, Ivan thought, he had been so unfair to his brave little sunflower. He must remember that his Alfred expected pain, and could not anticipate the pleasure he deserved for his confessions. The night was young, and the blame could only be Ivan's that his flower was troubled still. He could not assume Alfred's fickle trust so readily, and he should be ashamed of himself for his impatience.

But he would not lose Alfred now. He would do what he must. His task was nearly done.

He lowered his head and used his tongue to clean the salty tears from the side of Alfred's face. The boy turned away, and Ivan pressed his lips to the thin flesh below his jaw where his pulse hammered. He released Alfred from his punishing hold and directed him to lay on the pillow at the head of the mattress.

Uncertain, Alfred obeyed. He settled into the pillow with a sick feeling in his stomach and allowed Ivan to pin him to the bed. Ivan hadn't hit him. He hadn't flown into a rage. The metal headboard was cold. "Are you okay, man? You're starting to freak me out."

Ivan was quick to learn his opponents. He knew Alfred's strengths and weaknesses, his highest power and his greatest fears. He knew Alfred's aversion to binding, and had used the information to torture him on his defeat in Moscow. For a man who rested his entire identity on the significance of freedom, Ivan supposed his phobia of restraints made sense. Moscow had been the only experience Alfred ever had with Ivan and bondage, and Ivan had a reputation for lasting impressions.

Below the bed, his scarf uncoiled.

Ivan gazed down at him, stroking his captured wrists with his fingers. "This will be difficult, Fredka, but you leave me no choice."

Ivan's scarf folded itself through the bars of the headboard and curled with rapid movements around Alfred's arms, folding his forearms helplessly above his head and tethering him to the metal behind him. Alfred jerked with a shout, but Ivan squeezed his middle with his knees and used his weight to hold him still.

"Damn it, Russia, no!" Alfred kicked his heels and snarled up at Ivan. "Get off me, let me go!"

Ivan pressed kisses to his collarbone, brushed his tangled arms with gentle fingers. "Hush, Alfred. We will wait here until you are calm."

He was an idiot. He'd fallen for sentiment, just like Arthur said he would. He'd underestimated Russia. Visions of an icy metal floor and iron shackles so cold they burned his skin returned, and he thought he choked on a cloth gag.

The boy raged, but Ivan ignored his struggles and touched him softly, stroked his hips. He bathed Alfred's abdomen with his tongue, using the tip to outline square abdominal muscles. He told him repeatedly that he was beautiful, that he was warm, he was safe.

Eventually Alfred stilled, panting and tearful. The memories faded as he tired himself, leaving him naked and cold and exposed, and made up his mind to bite if Ivan got too close. "I said I was sorry! Get off me!"

One more tantrum, Ivan thought, the final guard. Alfred had taken the binding so well. He was nearly there. He reached into the night table for lubricant, disregarding Alfred's vulgar expletive, and laid it beside himself on the mattress.

"You are brave, but it is time to stop fighting, Fredka." He used the soft flesh beside Alfred's hipbones to remind him why he was there, and Alfred jolted. "Tell me again why you came back here tonight."

"Goddamn it, I just wanted to talk to you." Alfred twisted beneath him, blue eyes so prettily drowned in tears. "I was trying to be nice!"

"You are not an idiot." Ivan told him sardonically, and lifted his leg to use his tongue on the erogenous zone behind his knee. "You and I know one another too well for that excuse."

Alfred cursed and kicked at his head in the gloom. "I didn't want you to think it was your fault, asshole. You're an _asshole_."

Ivan leaned forward to nip Alfred's hip and cupped his behind in a large hand. "Have you been thinking, too, about the past?"

Alfred jerked at his bound arms and hissed at the curl of cold breath on his side. A heavy blush heated his cheeks and he prayed Ivan couldn't see it in the dark. "What do you mean?"

"Moscow." Alfred shivered, undoubtedly recalling trauma. Ivan reached for the bottle, coated his fingers, waited for the boy to calm before he continued. "London. New York."

He pressed a finger to Alfred's opening, and the boy bared his teeth, so he continued. Alfred threw his head back onto the pillow. "Ah, fuck. No. Yes." Ivan crooked his finger, and Alfred jerked. "Yebat' _tebya_!"

"Fuck _you_." Ivan said mildly. "For what you have done to me, boy."

The boy had tightened considerably in their time apart. He spent time on the second finger, massaging Alfred's insides as the boy cursed him and fought. He could smell Alfred's sweat and his heat, breathed his unique scent as it rose from his blushed skin like perfume. His cock ached, but the night was not about him. He would have his pleasure, and much more.

Ivan's fingers stretched him little by little, and he couldn't kick hard enough to free himself. That damn scarf held like it was made of steel, and no matter how he squirmed he couldn't escape its hold. He'd spent two weeks thinking about Ivan and his stupid soft hair and his eyes and his long-ass legs. The way he held the neck of a bottle of vodka in three fingers when he drank, like he knew he was tougher than everything else on earth. The tweak of an eyebrow when he didn't want to admit that Alfred said something funny.

He was trapped, bound, tied, and Ivan was asking questions like he knew the answers. Ivan's big hands were on him and in him and he added a third finger and stretched him wider and Alfred refused to give Ivan the satisfaction of knowing how close he already was.

"London." Alfred surprised him, and Ivan leaned closer to hear the words. "London sometimes. God." He shuddered, and Ivan's excitement rose. "Usually here."

"London. You delight me, Alfred." Ivan closed his cock in a loose fist, and Alfred gritted his teeth. Ivan watched his handsome jaw knot as he worked Alfred into fullness. Alfred bucked in his hand, incisors silver in the darkness; but as he fought Ivan, he fought his pleasure, and Alfred so desperately wanted to be ravished. Armored to pain, but so susceptible to bliss.

Smiling, Ivan tightened his grip. "Come for me, _podsolnukh_." He leaned in close to Alfred's ear. "Give me another drink."

His snowy hair was soft on his cheek, those long fingers found that delicious place again and again, and he pumped his cock just right, and matter how he tried, Alfred couldn't contain the orgasm that clenched his entire body at once and dragged a wheeze out of his mouth and _lit his nerve endings on fire_.

He released a harsh breath and a _fuck_ and then Ivan began to lick his stomach spotless, idly lapping up his release with a soft cool tongue while Alfred's shivers faded into panting. If Ivan had just called him a whore, so be it. Nothing had ever turned him on like that deep whisper in his ear. "Oh Christ, Ivan, _God_."

He pressed his lips to Alfred's stomach. "Good boy."

Alfred watched with a dazed expression as Ivan rose above him. He pulled half-heartedly at the scarf, but when Ivan slipped his tongue into his mouth, he decided not to bite after all.

"You are still so young." Ivan settled himself between Alfred's legs and released the button on his slacks, and tried not to groan with relief. He stroked himself absently through his trousers, willing self-control to return, and watched Alfred's eyes clear of mist. He wanted him to feel every inch, a punishment for his abstinence. "You are foolish, boy."

Ivan's zipper was loud, and the bottle cap _pop_ was louder. Weakly Alfred tossed his head and began to struggle anew. Fight, he thought, fight until the bitter end. And something was coming to an end; he could feel it. " _Fuck_ you, Braginsky. You started _all_ this shit."

For a moment Ivan simply enjoyed the alleviating sensation of stroking himself. He coated his member thickly with the contents of the bottle in a conscious effort not to cause Alfred pain and intentionally allowed the drippings to fall on Alfred's skin.

"You hated me first, man, I never did shit to you." Alfred's heel struck his hip, and Ivan lifted the leg onto his shoulder. "It was you and your stupid eyes and your stupid big coat and your goddamn outcast attitude."

Holding his leg over a shoulder, Ivan hummed and positioned himself to retake his sunflower, reminded himself to be tender, to move slowly.

Alfred showed his teeth. "I kept telling Arthur how much I admired you. I should've listened in the beginning and none of that stupid shit would have ever happened and you'd still be just an ally."

"Am I not your ally?" Ivan rocked his hips and slid the first part of his manhood inside Alfred's warmth. The heat, he thought, might melt him if Alfred's mewls didn't melt him first. That Alfred didn't seem to realize he was whimpering though his threats only added to his bliss.

Alfred was a full mast already, and that pissed him off. Ivan was inside him and that little bit felt huge and that pissed him off too. "I don't know what you are, man, some demon from hell Satan sent up here to fuck with me." Ivan slid in another inch, and he began to sweat. "God, _fuck_ you."

Ivan pressed kisses to his sternum and collarbone and shoulder, and it felt so good. Alfred could feel his voice weaken. "I used to sit around and think how I could be more like you before the Cold War. "Then you wouldn't—" another roll of Ivan's hips—" _fucking_ die and I just wanted you _gone_ and everybody told me I couldn't beat you and I fucking _did_ , so _fuck_ _you_!"

Ivan licked the sweat that gathered at his collarbone and let him bark. Alfred was too tight around him, too hot, and he didn't think he could speak without grunting like an animal.

Too much, too good, too fast, Alfred thought. He shouldn't have come back. Ivan was right; he knew better. He'd known the second he'd dropped the bag and started running over the ice. He'd known the second Ivan had pinned him to the wall, in the instant before the first taste. "God, Moscow."

Ivan agreed.

"That war made me things I'm not. You make me things I'm not." Alfred's voice scraped the back of his throat, and he couldn't remember what he was talking about, and Ivan was almost completely inside. "God, I remember Moscow. All I could think was, 'I'm still alive, I'm so alive."

He cried out sharply, and Ivan forced himself to stop, let the boy breathe. But it was difficult.

Ivan heard his sound of pain and stopped moving, hands wrapped around his waist. Alfred panted, he writhed, he refused to give in. "Why didn't we stop? It's our fault."

"What is our fault?" Ivan massaged his sides, thoroughly entertained, and pretended his heart wasn't pounding. Alfred strained against his scarf. Ivan noted that he wasn't pulling with even half his strength.

"I can't remember the last time I really thought I hated you." Alfred opened his eyes, and Ivan met his gaze. His eyes blazed beneath drawn eyebrows. "You're the guy I call when I can't be alone. God, don't stop, come on."

Who was he to refuse the boy? Ivan buried himself to the hilt in Alfred's heat, his perfect tight body, and Alfred released a long, guttural sound that Ivan knew well. Then came the stillness, the first sweet moments of Alfred's surrender.

Their hips met, and it felt like heaven, fire and ice and delicious pleasure and just enough pain. His gut clenched so hard he thought he would break. His legs trembled and gave. He went limp in his bonds, too tired to pretend he wasn't completely overwhelmed. Alfred allowed his head to roll to the side as he stared up at Ivan's black shape. "We can't back out. I said too much again, didn't I?"

Ivan brushed sweat-soaked hair out of his eyes. Alfred panted beneath him, docile in his bindings and resigned to his handling. His heart sighed, content, and a crushing weight lifted from his chest. He pressed his fingers, his palm, his wrist against Alfred's contracting abdomen in a slow glide to reach the dip in his collarbone. The boy's body still fought him, but Alfred tossed his head; the battle had come to a resplendent end. " _Da_ , Fredka. It is too late."

"I'm sorry. I fucked it up." Alfred shook his head, eyes on Ivan's. "I don't want to stop."

The boy still had no idea what he was doing, and Ivan found his ignorance endearing. Wrapping his hands around Alfred's shoulder and waist, he shifted his hips to pull himself out of Alfred's body as slowly as he could, and was rewarded by the absolute vision of Alfred's sapphire eyes rolling into the back of his head. Alfred was a sculpture of euphoria beneath him: bare throat working, head pressed into the pillow, glistening golden with sweat, gasping for breath. He would send France on vacation every year for the remainder of the century. "I do not know what you think has changed, Alfred. I told you that you are free to do what you will."

Another agonizingly gentle pull out, thrust in. His body wasn't his own; it wound itself so tight he knew he would burst. Ivan brushed his thumb over Alfred's cock, and Alfred tried desperately to stay focused though the sweat dripping in his eyes. "You _knew_. How long?"

He'd broken something, Alfred thought, some bilateral wall they had built between Cold War and Everything After. He'd acknowledged the pointless phone calls, the secret armistice, the shared bottles and the bucket of ice cream in Ivan's freezer. Ivan hated ice cream. He said it was too sweet. Why hadn't he noticed, Alfred thought, that he always had some at his house? Why hadn't he noticed that Ukraine let him in every time without asking if Ivan even wanted company? One of the mugs in the kitchen was Alfred's Mug, and Ukraine always had it filled before he could ask for a cuppa. He had a toothbrush in the bathroom. He had a place in Ivan's bed. How long had they been using their first names? He couldn't remember. What they had wasn't an uneasy truce, wasn't even close.

"Christ, why do you always know everything?" Ivan began a steady rhythm, loose-gripped and light. Alfred twisted his arms, not to escape, but in the desire to run, to fight, to _move_. "Fuck, we can't do this."

Never, never would he have envisioned the moment Ivan would patiently wait for him, restrain him, and then touch him so softly. Nothing, nothing compared to the chained strength in Ivan's body, the knowledge that lethal, sadistic, malicious Russia had him at his mercy again and chose to gentle his hands like he was precious, like Alfred was something he wanted to keep wild. Ivan thrust back into him gently, so gently Alfred thought he would go insane. He could feel him with every muscle in his core, and his back arched. A flash of ecstasy charged through his veins, and the room turned white.

"I think I have made my position on the matter very clear, Fredka." Alfred seized, spine rounded, and Ivan paused to brush his fingertips along his trembling thighs, to prolong the moment, to enjoy the sounds Alfred made. "I miss you when you are gone."

Tightly coiled and dangerously close to begging, Alfred rested his head on his arm to look up at him. Ivan's hair was damp with sweat, his heavy shoulders were loose with masculine confidence, and those deadly eyes scorched in the shadows. The sight was tremendously erotic. "We can't do this. The others, England—what if-"

Ivan bucked his hips hard, and Alfred choked on silence and fell back onto the pillow. He wasn't wrong, but that he pretended to be oblivious to their combined power was frustrating. The other nations feared them both. They should fear the union that joined as they did. "They are powerless against us, Alfred. I will not be without you. You are with me even when you go."

The world stopped around them, and Alfred thought vaguely that he'd lost his mind. Nothing moved, nothing breathed, the snowy sky outside stopped in time. His heart burst in his chest, crying out that Ivan was right, he was right, he was right. He wouldn't have come back, Alfred thought, if he wasn't. He wouldn't have provided an opening if he hadn't wanted to be attacked. He'd admitted weakness and some part of him, some wiser part of him, had known. How quickly, he thought, alliances changed. How quickly hate died. He fell back on the bed, and tears began to fall; not tears of dread, but relief. Some battle had ended, and some unspoken siege was over, and he wasn't sure who lost. "God, what have we done?"

It was done. Alfred had finally brought him the lock, wrapped it with sweet confessions, and trusted that he could forge the key. For hours he had meticulously premeditated every moment, enticed him, reassured him, had finally broken his arrogant spirit; and his reward lay beneath him, unspoiled and more valuable for its defeat. Ah, the high of conquering, he thought. And ah, the prize. _He had done it._

Alfred looked up at him with reddened lips, glistening azure eyes, a hint of flushed hesitancy. His conquered sunflower was silent in his submission, unsure, frightened of the intensity of his passion; he cried. Ivan rested his fingers on the curve of his hip. "Alfred? _Podsolnukh,_ there is no one here. Only you and me." Ivan laid his nose alongside his and said in a soft voice, "I will stop if you ask me."

Alfred's eyes fluttered closed and he began to cry in earnest. But he shook his head, and when Ivan kissed him, he returned the kiss with fervor. Ivan allowed no room for complaint or question, and Alfred made none. He met Ivan's thrusts with equal force, legs locked around his waist and arms bound in his scarf, until Ivan moved with greater power, angled his hips, and watched Alfred come radiantly undone.

Gorgeous, he thought. A sunflower in full bloom on a cold winter night.


	4. Chapter 4

He gave Alfred no rest until the sun had begun to rise and his flower begged, spent and exhausted, for freedom. Even then, he was reluctant to free him from the confines of the bedroom, to let him back into the light. He feared that Alfred would come to his senses if the sunlight that filtered through the windows of the house touched his skin, reminded him that he didn't belong with darkness and cold. He convinced Alfred to sleep through the dawn and showered quickly so he could return to where he rested.

He'd laid down with Alfred Jones, and he had slept. When Alfred woke, he started, and for a hideous moment Ivan thought he regretted what he'd done. Then Ivan wrapped him tightly in the blanket and assured him that all was well, and Alfred returned to the pillow for another short doze.

He didn't open the curtains. He didn't need to see Alfred engulfed of a halo of glittering morning light, hair mussed by the pillow and expression eased in dreams. It was not the first time Alfred had slept in his bed; it was only the first time he'd been beside him to greet the day.

In sleep Alfred was unguarded, and he traced a finger along the dimple in his cheek, then the soft set of his jaw. He was still only a child with open palms and loose fingers, curled on his side beneath the blanket. The savagery that he knew lurked behind that half-smile was secondary to his being, a gift bestowed by some forgiving god for Alfred to use in protection of who he really was. His plan had been flawed from the beginning; he had been foolish to expect Alfred to hate him for eternity. Alfred simply could not have hated him forever. It was not in Alfred's nature to despise. He would not blame himself for his mistake. He, a creature of iron and ice, could not have understood.

He slipped a palm over Alfred's abdomen to feel his heart. Its beat was strong and steady. It probably beat continually, Ivan thought, unlike his own. No wonder the boy was hot-blooded, ill-tempered, badly behaved. For a moment he considered the possibility of cutting Alfred open to see—but that would probably be rude, and he didn't need to approach the matter so directly. Alfred had approached him first.

He wondered how the boy could be confused. He'd noticed long ago that neither waited more than a few days without initiating some contact. When on the same continent, the two would inevitably find one another. When separated by their geography, Alfred would send insulting messages to his phone to remind Ivan that he was alive somewhere in the sun.

Ivan was not fooled by Alfred's rough language. When the calls began, they created a cipher for their own use, forged a code from the familiar semasiology that had become routine over decades of abuse and could not be changed. To another ear, the terse phone calls sounded like nuclear war barely contained, but neither Ivan nor Alfred would hang up before the end of the call. _Fucking Ruski_ meant _thinking of snow_ ; _watch your tongue, boy_ meant _you need sleep, Alfred_ ; and _fuck you_ became… something else.

He remembered Alfred's chanting of the phrase the night before, and his manhood tightened. Alfred was melted honey, plaint and sated as he turned him to face the ceiling, and his curtains could not deny the sunlight which crept around the edges of the window to seek out his tanned form.

He was so beautiful. He would never tire of the sight.

" _Shedevr_." He whispered to the lithe abdomen. _Masterpiece._

Alfred brushed a lazy hand through his hair and, in with a voice hoarse from holding back cries, said, "The fuck is that supposed to mean?"

The boy's mouth hardened in wakefulness, but he didn't bother to open his eyes. There was no veil of ferocity between them, would not be until the day began and the spell was broken. That Alfred was not willing to crack the illusion was flattering.

"It means that you are gorgeous." Ivan told him honestly, absently. "You distract me."

Alfred released a low breath. "Christ, Ivan. It's the accent. It's your fucking accent. I can't."

Ivan hummed, distracted by the rising demand between his legs and the toned muscle that reacted so eagerly to his tongue.

"You're not serious. What, you didn't get enough last night? _No_." Alfred sat against the cold metal headboard and shoved Ivan's hands away. "What are you _on_? I'm putting an embargo on my ass."

Ivan rose to his knees above him with a knowing smile. Alfred's heart skipped a beat. Ivan leaned down, one hand on the metal, to suck deliberately at the pulse jumping in Alfred's throat.

"Now I know you don't know what an embargo is." Alfred lost his train of thought in the devilish things Ivan did to his jaw. "Christ. Ivan."

His limbs liquefied into useless jelly when Ivan murmured against his throat, a low rumble that vibrated in his chest. "Be good for me, Fredka, just a little more. I am not finished with you yet." Cool fingers cupped the back of his thigh. "You have not yet cried my name."

Fucked, Alfred thought, I am fucked.

Alfred gave no resistance when Ivan flipped him onto his knees and held his hips between his hands. He placed a kiss at the base of Alfred's backbone, then licked the salty indentation of his spine in a long, wet line to the back of his neck where he could hear Alfred chanting curses to himself. All the better that the boy was in a vocal mood. "Will you sing for me, _podsolnukh_?"

Alfred clutched fistfuls of the sheets, staring down at the pillow. "What does that mean? Are you insulting me? Cause I'd be insulted after yesterday."

Ivan covered the surface of his back with his hands and explored, massaging Alfred's reluctant muscles into complacency. Alfred rolled his shoulders and neck, leaning into the administrations. Unable to resist, Ivan pressed another kiss to his shoulder. "Sing for me, and I will tell you."

He couldn't help himself; Alfred released a short, genuine laugh. "I'm not your canary, Braginski. I don't sing on command."

Ivan wrapped a hand around his throat and dragged Alfred into his shoulder to watch the sunlight on his profile. " _Nyet_. You are naturally obstinate, Fredka."

Alfred pressed himself against the length he could feel beneath his slacks, and Ivan hissed. Alfred congratulated himself for a victory. "You keep calling me that, what is that?"

"Fredka." Ivan smoothed his palms down Alfred's arms, enjoying every curve in each muscle, and spread his hands over Alfred's. He murmured in Alfred's ear while he was distracted. "It is a term of endearment, made using your name. You are the only Fredka."

Alfred turned his palm, pressing his hand flush against Ivan's. Another of Ivan's more striking—and intimidating—qualities, he thought. Big palms, long fingers, remarkably strong and dexterous. Together, their skin tones reminded him of snow and sand. Then Ivan's explanation found its way into his ears. "Wait—really?"

Ivan hummed. Alfred arched in his lap, knees bent and legs spread, and rested on his erection as if he belonged there. Did the boy know how beguiling he was, he wondered, how confident, how very seductive? He rested the arch of his nose in the curve of the boy's shoulder, stroked his inner thigh with a thumb. He flinched—he did, he could admit—when Alfred's hand descended on the side of his head. His fingers sifted through hair, and he mimicked Ivan's caressing thumb just behind his ear.

Ivan's sigh was cool on his back, and Alfred felt his eyelashes tickle his shoulder. Wrapped in muted sunlight, they sat together enveloped in bedraggled sheets and the unspoken.

"Your hands are huge." Alfred said. He didn't tell Ivan that he wasn't disappointed to have run through frigid winds, sliding on black ice, to tell him the truth. Then, after a stabilizing breath: "You knew."

Ivan was silent for so long Alfred thought he wouldn't speak. Finally, he said, "No."

"Well, you knew something."

Alfred's tone sharpened. Loathe to disrupt their quiet, Ivan pressed a kiss to his shoulder. "All is well, Alfred."

"No. It's really not." Alfred inhaled deeply. Ivan tightened his arms around the boy's waist, but Alfred only shook his head. "We have to start watching what we're doing, dude. We have to start controlling ourselves."

Ivan lifted an eyebrow, although Alfred couldn't see. "I am surprised to hear that from you."

"I'm not always an asshole." Alfred complained. "And I'm serious, man. We can't just do whatever we want."

Ivan rested his chin on Alfred's shoulder. He spread his hands over the tender flesh below his navel and was pleased when Alfred arched into his chest. He was so warm, so firm. "I do not understand. We both do as we please. You cannot disagree."

Alfred's pelvis tilted against Ivan's hands, and he ground himself against his erection in revenge. "You know what I think? I think you're poison, dude. I think you're bad candy."

Ivan's eyes opened, and Alfred was pinned in his stare. He was like a snake, he thought, hypnotizing and venomous. Those fucking eyes. Ivan held him there as he leaned in close to whisper, "If that is the worst you can call me today, Fredka, then I have done well."

Alfred closed his eyes, and the pink tip of his tongue appeared. He chewed his full bottom lip before opening his eyes to stare at the ceiling. He released a controlled breath. "Bad candy. Bad Alfred. Bad."

He could feel Ivan's teeth against his shoulder as he bared them in a grin; then, the wet track of a cold tongue. Ivan rose on his knees, carrying Alfred with him. "But I have been very, very good to you, Fredka."

How was it that Ivan seemed to instinctively know exactly how to turn him on? His hips were hard against Alfred's backside as he lifted them both, and Alfred felt a twitch down below. Ivan's body covered his, and he stroked his sides as they rose, cupped his hand around the curve of his arm.

"You and me, Alfred," Ivan said as he wrapped Alfred's fingers around the topmost bar of the headboard, "we do what we want. If does help you to think humbly, please." He pressed a kiss to the back of his neck. "But that is not my way."

He traveled the curves of Alfred's thighs, his hips, his behind, his sides. He leaned in to appreciate his scent, all the more intoxicating for the morning light, and murmured into his skin, "You are so much more radiant in the sun, Fredka."

Ivan's breath shifted Alfred's hair as he closed his other hand around the headboard and moved away. Ivan's body eclipsed his perfectly, every curve and line, and every touch lingered as if he didn't want to let go. Alfred dropped his head, clenching the metal tightly. He chuckled. "Damn if you don't talk sweet, ruski."

Alfred's voice fell into his deep southern drawl, and Ivan couldn't ignore the coil that tightened low in his belly in response. One of Alfred's more unique traits, he thought. When angered, he spoke with the emphatic, spitting dialect of the northern U.S.; when truly enraged or victorious, he drawled. Saccharine and arrogant, it was the sound which had first attracted him to young America. That Ivan's first encounter with the drawl was an unpleasant one only heightened its allure.

He remembered young America well, had been fascinated by both of the north American brothers at first sight. The word had been 'spitfire,' an English term that could have been embodied by either Matthew or Alfred: energetic and bold, still fresh in their adolescence, still warmly nestled beneath their fathers' boots. Had Matthew been in control of Alaskan fur trading instead of his brother, he imagined that history would have played differently. Matthew could not have withstood against Russia's strength. No, his brother's fire burned more brightly, more hotly, than the rest of his little family combined. To revolt would have been inevitable.

So taken had he been with America and the audacity of his little revolution that reflections of his cries for independence found ears on his own shores; quickly silenced, of course, but the Decembrists _had_ existed. Even then, he had teased and rebuked Alfred's representatives playfully in his courts, and ultimately had agreed to the First League of Armed Neutrality. In honesty, he had only been toying with Great Britain; but the bridge between he and young America had been built, and he had not protested. His first trade agreement with the shining youth had been signed not thirty years after, only an instant in his extended memory. When the opportunity had come to meet Alfred face-to-face, he had taken it immediately.

Alfred could not know how Ivan had planned, waited, culled him into place amongst the world's elite powers. If he had, Ivan mused as he returned Alfred's wandering hands to the headboard, the Cold War might have been much colder.

"So," Alfred drawled with a toss of his head and a winning smile, "how long've you had this planned? Did y'all start with the Revolution or did you reconsider after the Cold War?"

He felt Ivan freeze—another victory, although maybe he should have waited to be a smart ass until he'd been wearing pants—and then the laughter started. That eerie, genuine, quiet laugher he'd learned to hate and fear sounded from just behind him, and a jolt of electricity tightened every muscle. He inhaled deeply as he felt Ivan rise, and he hung his head when Ivan covered him.

Ivan's hands—bigger than his, but not stronger, he reminded himself—curled around his on the metal, pinning him in place. Ivan used a thick thigh to spread his knees wider, settled between them, laughed at him. Alfred remained silent. It wasn't macho, he thought, but the upper hand was definitely not his. He'd have to play nice a little longer.

"You and me, Alfred, we think too much alike." Alfred turned away, eyes closed, when he fit their bodies together and leaned over him to croon in his ear. "I should not be so surprised. No," he said, "I did not plan _this_. But I do have much more planned for you, Fredka."

Ivan used the syrup-sweet tone he employed when caught in a lie, Alfred thought, so he'd struck the hammer on the head—or maybe the sickle. Ivan pressed his hips against his backside with enough force to move him, and the headboard jumped beneath their hands. Alfred could feel his blood begin to rush. He turned to look at him, but Ivan lifted his head. "Yeah? Like what?"

Hidden in Alfred's yellow hair, Ivan allowed himself a smile. "Ah, Alfred. I am so curious to know where you will go these next hundred years." Alfred remained still on the headboard when he removed a restraining hand to unbutton his slacks, head bowed, breath labored. And—Alfred jumped when he reached around his hip—was exactly as enthusiastic at the turn of topic as he was.

He jerked when Ivan brushed him and clenched a hand around the offending wrist. Teeth gritted, more than a little uneasy, he said, "Yeah, you and me both. Is that how long you think you've got, about a hundred years? I'd start planning for your replacement, buddy."

Ivan stroked him until Alfred began to pull at his arm, then let him go in favor of his own relief. Alfred pressed his free hand into the mattress between his legs, head hung. He deliberately allowed the back of his hand to brush Alfred's spine as he worked himself into full hardness and ignored the taunting tone of Alfred's voice. "Do you wonder what I saw when I first looked at you, young America? When you were small and fighting for your place in this world?"

"Yeah, actually." Alfred refused to react to the erection pressed against his backside, but the thought crossed his mind that Ivan wouldn't prepare him first. "You gonna take me out for dinner first, big guy?"

" _Nyet_." Ivan said calmly, and pressed himself to Alfred's opening.

"Woah, _no_!" Alfred lifted himself and made to turn, to strike with his free hand, but Ivan reached below his shoulder and hefted him effortlessly in a half-nelson grip. Pinned against the headboard and Ivan's shoulder, Alfred could do nothing but grasp weakly at Ivan's hand, clenched in his hair, as the awkward angle rendered his arm unusable. " _Fucker!"_

Ivan extended his arm, forcing Alfred's head toward the mattress, and the boy hissed through his teeth as he pushed himself inside. "You are still prepared from yesterday, Fredka, do not worry."

Alfred muttered rude things through the discomfort, but Ivan was right—the sensation wasn't painful. "You got a lot of practice with this, Braginski?"

The boy made a joke, and he did not fight; he lowered his head and spread his legs further to allow him entry. He had done very well. Ivan smiled, half-sheathed, and rewarded him with slow, smooth movements to avoid harming his insides. "Some."

Ivan moved carefully, as gently as he had the night before; hanging helpless in his grip, Alfred closed his eyes and submitted himself to what was not an unpleasant experience. He licked his lips, took a breath, and whispered, "Christ, you feel so fucking good. You mean it when you say you're gonna be nice, huh?"

The hand that gripped his hair by the roots softened, and Alfred felt, rather than saw, Ivan's smile. "I did. I want to please you, Fredka."

Their hips met, and Ivan stilled to allow him a moment of rest. Alfred released a long sigh of relief. "Mission accomplished." Then, a little awkwardly: "It's weird that nobody's bleeding, though."

Ivan released a loud and authentic laugh. "There will be time for that. You're funny, Alfred."

He released the boy's arms. As he had hoped he would, Alfred sat upright in his lap, spine arched, and rested there. Muscles in his arms bunched as he pressed his hands into the mattress between their legs for balance. Ivan used his fingers to explore those small curves, shadowed and highlighted in the half-light. When he lifted his gaze to follow his hands, Ivan found Alfred watching him uncertainly.

"You look unsure, Fredka. Am I hurting you?" He pressed his lips to Alfred's triceps muscle, massaged the flesh of his upper arm.

"N-No." Alfred's eyes tracked the motion of his thumb, then returned to his own.

"Then what is it that you want to tell me?"

Alfred's throat worked as he swallowed, and Ivan could see the blush that crept up his neckline to reach his cheeks. Delighted by the sight, he cocked his head to watch its progression.

"Like that." Alfred said, and swallowed again. "Nobody's ever looked at me like that."

Ivan smiled again, and Alfred marveled at the sincerity, a rare smile which reached Ivan's blank eyes. He stared, and Ivan said, "Most of this world spends its time watching you, boy."

Alfred's golden skin carried a blush, his blue eyes were wide, his lips open to receive. Ivan thought he could see the oil on his curled eyelashes, faint freckles on the boy's nose. "You are so young, Alfred. You have much yet to know."

Something ancient, something primal looked out at him through Ivan's violet eyes. He couldn't doubt that what Ivan said was true, that Ivan thought of him as a child; the truth was, Alfred thought as he tried not to fidget under that stare, that he was right. For a moment, Alfred felt like one—a child nation, hunted by an early power with mysterious motives. "So why did you get involved? Way back when, I mean, the beginning." He corrected himself. "My beginning."

It was too quiet a scene, Alfred thought, too cozy, too serene for the questions that often disturbed him late at night when he was alone. Warm sheets, yellow sunlight, gentle touches—those things had no place in the conversation about what he owed, or any other conversation he shared with Ivan. Was it hidden danger, he wondered, or was it just the changing of tides?

Ivan's big hand curled around the back of his neck. He resisted, but Ivan shushed him; he allowed himself to be pushed prone against the bed, ass up with Ivan inside him. This, he thought, was absolutely not how he'd envisioned this discussion. He had thought he'd at least be swinging.

Alfred's body tensed beautifully around his cock as he forced the boy facedown onto the mattress. Alfred gripped the sheets, eyes closed, and spread his knees wider for balance. For him. Ivan held him still by the neck and the hip, and rolled his hips to fit himself perfectly to the boy's backside. Licking his lips, he said conversationally, "Do you know how many times your father asked me for help after your little temper tantrum?"

Ivan slid out, back in, and Alfred felt his stomach clench; not in response to his absurdly gentle thrusts, but to his opinion of the American Revolution. "It wasn't a _temper tantrum_ ," he started, but Ivan lowered himself to speak into his ear.

"Your little rebellion was a temper tantrum," he said, "thrown by a spoiled colony with no understanding of the consequences of his actions. You may be responsible for the total downfall of the British Empire, boy. Your father begged me for help, to _crush_ you. He came to me for alliance, Alfred, he asked me to destroy the boy he raised."

Alfred had known about Arthur's requests for aid during his Revolution, but had been happy to leave those memories behind. He had not known that Arthur had been willing to ally with Russia just to destroy his vision. The thought was abhorrent, terrifying, singularly nauseating. Strong as he was—he had always impressed with his strength—he knew he could not have denied the combined powers of the British Empire and the Russian Empire. If Russia had joined Arthur's hysterical assaults, Alfred F. Jones might never have been called America, would never have been free. A heavy weight lodged itself in his stomach, and he shook his head against the sheets in denial. He could feel a threatening lump grow in his throat. "It wasn't like that."

"But it was." Alfred clenched his jaw, his fists, his abdomen. Ivan watched the muscles in his shoulders work to keep him still as he thrust again. "Can you imagine why we told him no?" Then, lips brushing the shell of his ear, "Can you imagine what would have happened to you if I had told him yes?"

Alfred warred with himself: to rise up in anger, to shove Ivan, to run home where he was alone and away from the threat that loomed over him; or to clutch the sheets and bite his lip and ride out the threat, to show no fear.

Ivan's hair was soft on his cheek, and his breath lingered cold over his cheekbone. The hand on the back of his neck was firm, but soft, and the other wasn't touching him at all. He wasn't hurt, he thought; Ivan continued to be gentle despite the harsh truths he whispered in his ear. Despite the pounding of his heart, Alfred didn't believe Ivan meant bodily harm, at least not until they were done. So he nodded, bunching the sheet under his chin. "I would've lost. I would've lost bad." Ivan moved in… Out. "I would've been a colony or dead right off the bat."

"Smart boy. Good." Ivan rewarded him with a few long, steady strokes. Alfred's mouth opened, pink and full, and he angled his pelvis for more. The boy behaved commendably after his efforts the night before, he thought, and deserved what sympathy he could give. So, smiling, he set the flat of one foot on the mattress beside Alfred's hip and tightened the fingers around his neck. Casually, he said, "I considered it at length. When Catherine asked me for advice, I think she expected me to agree to an alliance with the British. I remember her face when I told her to ignore your father's calls."

Alfred congratulated himself for keeping stonily silent while Ivan spoke. He was talkative, almost informal; it was a rare opportunity to learn something useful. And, he thought with his lip between his teeth, an opportunity to enjoy the wonderful things Ivan did from behind him. Each slow thrust was a pleasure, and he wondered if Ivan meant to distract him from his words. Keep talking, Alfred thought, keep him talking. "I didn't know that."

" _Da_." The boy's voice was thick with lust, and the sound was a gift. Ivan tilted his head to watch the sun caress the curve of his spine, his back, his hips. He followed its path with light fingers. "I waited, Alfred. I kept his armies in waiting for you. You used the time well."

Alfred lifted his head with fluttery anxiety in his stomach. He turned toward his shoulder, toward Ivan. "That—in the 1770's. That was _you_?"

He could have interpreted Ivan's hummed response as an animal growl, he thought, as Ivan bent to press tender kisses to the back of his neck. When he spoke, he spoke softly, with a note Alfred didn't quite recognize. " _Da_ , Amerika, that was me. I watched him scramble," a kiss to his shoulder, "and beg for help until you destroyed your enemies on your soil. When you were ready, Fredka, I sent my advice." Another kiss, just between his shoulder blades. "You're welcome."

"Thank you." He had wondered why Arthur had stayed his troops until '76. Not once had Russia crossed his mind. Ivan's fingers on his side were distracting, but he asked, "Why?"

"Truth be told; I have never liked much your father." Ivan entered him in a slow, heated glide, and stayed there to enjoy the warmth, the scent of his skin, the shiver that rolled down the boy's spine. "To deny him the help he desperately wanted was a delight, I assure you." The last he spoke into Alfred's throat with deliberate stress. "But, _ah_ , Amerika. To hear your cries from across the ocean—you inspired us all. Even I felt a—sympathy for your cause."

His stomach clenched, and Alfred shook his head, trying to free himself from Ivan's grip. He tried to sit, but Ivan used his weight to hold him still. Frustrated, Alfred said through gritted teeth, "That's enough. Don't you patronize me, Russia."

A large, cold hand curled around his throat. "Would it be easier for you, Fredka, if I told you lies? Would that be easier for you to accept?" Ivan's voice was level, dangerously so. " _Nyet_ , boy. This is the truth you missed while you fought for freedom. Why do you resist? I have been with you since the beginning, Alfred."

He was right, Alfred could admit. One of his first allies, the mighty Russian Empire he had turned around to destroy. Guilt gnawed at his stomach, and he lowered the arm that he'd used to push Ivan away. He didn't meet Ivan's intense eyes. "I didn't mean to upset you."

Ivan softened. "I am not angry with you, Fredka. You asked me why I helped you, and I tell you the truth: I do not like your father, but I have always liked you. Very much."

He released the boy's throat, returned to his administrations of the boy's neck and shoulders until Alfred filled his lungs with a composed breath. He rolled his hips, took the metal headboard in both hands, and began a steady tempo. Into the boy's shoulder he continued, "I wish I could show you the way you looked when we met, Alfred. The green of the grass, the blue in the sky, the wind. And you, a sweet lamb with the teeth of a wolf."

A shudder moved Ivan above him, inside him, and Alfred wondered if he was that good at lying… Or if he had really looked that good. He knew the memory—many of their most poignant memories were shared, he realized in a moment of surprise—and could feel the wind Ivan remembered, fresh with the scent of Washington's rain. It had been the first time he'd seen the Russian personification with his own eyes, and he had admitted to himself that the man's reputation preceded him.

1780, after the battle of Yorktown and the British surrender that cemented his right to exist in the big, beautiful world, Russia sent its personification to meet with him; specifically him, and Alfred remembered the burst of adrenaline that accompanied the reading of the letter. He had felt validated and so very, very real. They'd met not a month later at the White House. Alfred could still remember the shock that thrilled his system when the Russian ambassador and his guard walked into the room—and then Ivan Braginsky bent to clear the doorway, and Alfred's heart had jumped into his throat. The room chilled just in his presence, he remembered, and the assembled politicians fell silent as Alfred stood to greet the country from over the sea. He'd swaggered—maybe a little too much—and held out a hand to shake, looked up into those vivid eyes and that shrewd smile and had known, _known_ that something terrifying lurked just beneath. Ivan took his hand, their gloves met, and the room breathed again.

Something about Ivan's smile had weakened his young knees, and he'd overcompensated by squeezing Ivan's hand too tight. Ivan held his just a little too long, smiled just a little too nicely, and Alfred remembered feeling fear. Not for his country, but for the room; not for the people, but for himself. Ivan had been the first person to make him shake in his boots, though he had not been the first to try, and Alfred had realized in that moment that the world he loved was full of predators, and that he'd just become one of them.

He'd stayed one of them, he thought, one of the tigers with teeth hidden behind a political smile. An ambitious wolf with an impolite appetite. Not like England. Like Russia, he realized. Like Ivan, who smiled through his threats; like Ivan, who didn't hesitate to guarantee his own security. Like Ivan, who refused to change his ideals even when the world crashed down around him; like Ivan, who was also a little unhinged, and who didn't mind the insanity. Like Ivan.

Alfred lifted a hand as if dreaming and slid it beneath one of his, closing his fingers around the metal of the headboard and Ivan's own. Arthur had raised him, he thought, but he had disowned him. He loved his family, but no half-assed apology could change the past. It was Ivan who met him with a handshake at his independence, Ivan who agreed to stand beside him through two world wars, Ivan who met him blow for blow when their relationship turned sour, instead of leaving. It was Ivan who offered him frosty congratulations every year on his birthday; it was Ivan who Alfred called when he needed release, and some odd form of reassurance. It was Ivan who continued to humor him even after the Cold War, after the truly hellish things they'd said and done. It was Ivan who sat with him, left his blanket on the couch and his toothbrush on the sink, bought ice cream when Alfred crossed the Russian border. Whatever his motivations, he'd been there from the beginning, and Alfred had unconsciously taken after the elder nation he'd admired from the start.

In the end, it wasn't Arthur who received Alfred's awkward, emotional confessions: it was Ivan. Alfred wondered about love as Russia closed an arm around his waist to hold him closer. He didn't know—he hoped not—but Ivan hadn't asked. He knew Alfred well enough not to ask for something like that, and Alfred was grateful. He wasn't certain Russia was capable of love, and he wasn't certain he was, either.

Alfred rose to meet him, reached behind to his hip, met him thrust for thrust, and Ivan thought his icy heart would crack down the middle with the force of his passion. He took the boy by the waist, clung to him, whispered to him as if Alfred would change his mind—because he feared that he would. "You were so young, so proud, Alfred, so _bright_. I had never seen the sun shine from a man before I met you. I had never seen anything like you. You startled me with the life you breathed from your lungs. From the moment I met you, little one, I wanted to know you."

Little One, Alfred thought, was a nickname only one person was allowed to use. His entire body clenched around Ivan's cock, and he knew Ivan felt him. He dropped his head back onto his shoulder, hid his face in the wide collarbone, held his hands as Ivan pleasured them both. His entire body was sticky with sweat; his legs felt weak. Ivan intertwined their fingers, cold and hot, and Alfred felt his belly fill with magma.

Ivan's voice deepened further into the tenor that was honest, that few people had heard. "I watched you grow from a bold child into a nation, then into the superpower you are, that came to see me in the dark. You fascinate me, Alfred, every moment. You have everything I cannot have. You have light and heat and laughter in your _being_ , Fredka, in your very spirit. You are a creature of hot blood, of passion and flame, and I cannot understand. Oh, but I can admire you, Alfred." Ivan trailed his lips along the salted curve of his shoulder. "And I do admire you, little one."

Alfred reached blindly for the headboard, blinked away the sweat that stung his eyes.

"I am jealous of your friends, of your light, of your happiness." Ivan tasted him, and a cold tongue had never felt so good. "I could not stand you, Alfred. You mock me with your presence."

To Alfred's great dismay, Ivan slowed his hips and stopped. He tossed his head, throwing soaked hair out of his eyes, and panted until he could turn his head and complain. "Come on, don't stop, the fuck is wrong with you?"

Ivan's lips brushed his ear, and Alfred could hear him smiling. "Tell me you want me, little one."

His pride protested; his pride be damned. It wasn't the first time. "Christ Jesus, Ivan, please. I want you, so much."

Cold tongue, throbbing stillness, mocking smile. "Tell me you need me, little one."

"Ah, Christ." Alfred hung his head, cursed. Ivan had chosen an unexpected and tremendously effective revenge for daring to exist. "Fuck me, please fuck me, I _need_ it, please."

Finally, insidiously: "Call my name, little one. Sing for me."

Alfred's frame trembled with a shudder so extreme he thought for a moment that Ivan had hurt him. Sweat cooled on the blanket, his hands warmed the metal bars, his knees dented the mattress. His ego cracked, his pride crumbled. He telescoped onto the bed, facedown, and told the mattress, "Christ, Ivan, please fuck me, I'll sing like a fucking bird, baby, just for you. _Ivan_."

No primal desire, no carnal need had ever claimed ownership over Ivan's body until his Alfred sang his name, begged for him, and all without a single instant of combat. Alfred bowed down before him, presented himself, renounced all others before him, and he lost control of himself. It was a rare occurrence, an indulgence centuries in the making, and he intended to enjoy the experience. He took his Alfred without gentleness, mindless of the consequences; he lost himself in the sound of his own name in that willing, lustful mouth. He emptied himself of more than his seed and wondered, as he brought the boy to another trembling completion, if Alfred understood what he had been unable to speak.

Alfred spit out a mouthful of pillow, red-faced and trembling, and Ivan decided that enough had been understood. The moment of recovery was familiar. As they panted into silence, Ivan said, "Yesterday, Fredka, why did you come back to me?"

Alfred swallowed an embarrassing amount of drool. His backside ached—would ache much worse tomorrow—and the sleepy afterglow of a damn good orgasm settled into his bones. He sat up with a wince, set his back against the bars to face Ivan. Ivan's violet eyes were as ambiguous as they'd ever been, he was sure, but he could read them: lust, anxiety, curiosity. He wondered if the same cocktail was reflected in his own.

He shook his head, willing his body to cool. "Because I couldn't be alone, and I didn't want you to be alone either. Because I thought maybe this might happen." He spread his hands, glanced around the room at the evidence of their disrobing the night before. "I thought this was preferable to sleeping alone again. And I wanted to know for sure what the fuck," he made a circular gesture between them, "this is turning into. I think you and I both know this ain't Cold War."

They watched each other for weaknesses, for clues.

Alfred licked his lips. "If we're on the same page here, I think we're good with right now. I don't know anything else, man. I'm not ready for anything else right now."

Ivan stared at him, then tilted his head, then nodded. He sat down across the mattress from Alfred, content not to speak. The blanket was kicked aside; the house creaked. Someone opened the front door. Alfred watched sunlight catch particles of dust before they reached the floorboards. Ivan watched Alfred.

After a time, Alfred asked, "Who's that?"

"Ukraine." Ivan stood, used the blanket to clean himself. "She is making lunch." He glanced at Alfred's expression. "I asked her to come late today. You needed to sleep."

"Huh. I appreciate that, big guy." Alfred crossed his legs, grimaced. "What the fuck are we doing, man?"

Ivan met his eyes. "All is well. There is nothing here."

Nothing here, Alfred thought. No prying eyes, no pointing fingers, no accusations. Ukraine knew; Ukraine didn't care. She was adept at keeping her brother's secrets. "I have a weird question for you."

" _Da_."

"Two weird questions. One isn't a question. I have a question and a statement."

Dragging on his pants, Ivan turned to face him, mouth drawn. Alfred grinned. "First of all, love the cute nickname. If you ever call me little anything in front of anyone else, I'll kick your ass back to the stone age."

A quirk tugged at the corner of Ivan's mouth. He made no promises. He gestured with a finger, and his scarf unfolded itself beneath the bed. Alfred watched as it slinked up his leg to its place on his shoulders.

"Excellent. Creepy." Alfred held up two fingers. "Second, can I stay here today?"

"Naturally."

Alfred dropped his hand, stress invading his features. His vibrant energy calmed. Eyes on Ivan's, he nodded. "Okay. So that's where we are, huh?"

Ivan turned from him, unlocked the bedroom door. "I envy your vitality, boy."

Alfred called after him with a tone that could only be playful, but he ignored the spirited insults. Ukraine was in the kitchen, and he needed to ensure that she knew to keep her silence.

Ivan left the room, and Alfred called after him. He wasn't even sure what he said as he crawled off the bed in search of a shower, but he hoped it was offensive. He frowned as he shoved his legs into his discarded jeans and his boxer shorts, cold from disuse beneath the windowsill, and disentangled his shirt from the red sweater he'd worn the night before.

The floor was cold. He plucked Texas from the table as he passed, guilty for not having checked in sooner. He could hear Ivan and Ukraine speaking rapid Russian in the kitchen, but he couldn't catch what was said. Ivan's voice was low and almost a little gravelly from too many winters spent outdoors. It was a relief to hear in contrast to the eerily childish tenor he used in company he didn't like. The bathroom door closed, latched, and protected him from the sound.

He knew not to look in the mirror, but then, he was on a bad-decision bender. His face was pale with lack of sleep, and dark circles hung beneath his eyes. Ligature marks around the throat—one of his personal favorites; what else were those enormous hands for? —teeth to the shoulder, bruises on his arms. An expression of somber acceptance. After a few rounds with Russia, it was a comparatively good look. At least, he thought, he could fix the hair.

Why, he wondered as the water cascaded into its basin, did he feel so… exposed? Sex made him feel sexy. He liked being nude, was comfortable with his physique, and no one was in the bathroom with him. But he held himself as he watched the spray and stood with his legs pressed together against the cold.

He hadn't been entirely truthful in his response to Ivan's question, he thought. He hadn't returned to the house with expectations of… make-up sex. He'd returned because he was weak. Because Arthur was always right. Because he made stupid decisions with his heart, and ignored the good sense in his head. Ivan put too much stock in his return visit. The fact of the matter was that Alfred had no intentions of leaving his house, had regretted his freedom the instant he'd fled.

He returned, he thought as he stepped headfirst into the water, because Ivan hadn't taken advantage of his weakness the first time. He had known the dangers of admitting his emotional attachment to the one person in the world who had no qualms about emotional abuse. He'd swung, Alfred thought, and intentionally left himself wide open for the counter-attack. Even if he hadn't realized at the time what he wanted, that was what he had done. And Ivan, in a manner completely out of character, held back his attack.

He'd shared a bottle of vodka with him on the couch, had been within reaching distance, and Ivan hadn't made the move. He'd jabbed at Ivan's manipulative intentions, and Ivan hadn't become upset or angry. He'd pointed out the unfairness of the situation, Alfred thought, and had thought that surely Ivan's juvenile nature would prompt him to strike out, to hurt. But Ivan just told him 'it's fine', and said nothing else.

At a loss, Alfred had told Ivan that he'd miss their time together, that he didn't _want_ to be alone—he had all but begged Ivan to drag him back before he could escape, Alfred thought with more than a little self-disgust, and lathered his body a second time.

Then came the completely unexpected statement: "I am glad to have helped you." What did that _mean_ , he wondered, glad to have helped him? What had Ivan been referring to? The Revolution? The world wars, or maybe just the sex?

Surprised, he had taken the quitter's way. Instead of laying a hand on Ivan's thigh with his thanks, Alfred pulled back his arm and kept it to himself. He'd been amazed by his own cowardice, had leapt up with his hands safely in the warmth of his pockets, and all but ran out the door. Not from Ivan, but from his own failure to incite the responses he had so desperately wanted. And from the knowledge that he had really wanted Ivan to make him stay, even if just for one last good fight.

But Ivan let him go. That had been Alfred's undoing. He had walked out into freezing winds and crunching snow and an overwhelming weight on his chest. He had been confused, he remembered as he lathered his hair in water that finally began to warm. He had accomplished what he'd wanted, had retrieved his things and convinced Ivan to leave him and his family alone. Falling snow gathered on his coat, his nose went numb, and the duffel bag gained weight by the step.

He had stopped to allow someone to pass him, and had stood there on the sidewalk a few blocks from the house. He hadn't been tired, wasn't hurt—he just couldn't make himself take one more step toward the shelter of his apartment. His legs just wouldn't move. Francis came to his mind then, waving his hand in a looping gesture, and reminded him what he'd promised to say.

He was embarrassed. He didn't remember dropping the bag or starting back toward Russia's house. He blinked and found himself running toward the only place his legs wanted to take him.

There had been no planning on his part, he thought, staring at the nozzle and unwilling the leave the warm spray. He had no prepared speech when he barged right back in the door to find Ivan where he'd left him, chugging a bottle. Not until Ivan stood, padded toward him in the darkness, had Alfred realized the gravity of his situation. He'd opened his mouth, and the words spilled out: that Ivan kept him sane in a chaotic world, that Ivan grounded him, that he truly did still respect him. That Francis made him promise to mention his heart.

He'd scared himself then, or rather, Ivan's complete lack of facial response had scared him. He'd remembered in a wave who he stood beside and how stupid he was, and had quickly capitulated with a reminder that he _knew_ Ivan was manipulating him, was dangerous, that Alfred was _definitely_ leaving their strange arrangement. He'd done his part, and the weight that crushed him disappeared as he reached for the handle.

And then Ivan finally decided to make his move. His voice had been so soft, his tone so honest. Alfred had made the mistake of looking up at those vivid eyes, had seen that Ivan was not smiling, and had fallen into the trap he'd set himself. At the time, he'd been angry and had intended to take that anger out on Ivan.

The water stopped, and Alfred could smile a little at the tap. Ivan was a bastard, and he'd outdone himself with that first kiss. Alfred remembered the way their eyes had locked, the fleeting truth they'd spoken in that moment, and could admit that he'd been doomed. The short conversation that followed had been bluster and nothing more.

Oh, he'd fought, he thought as he dried himself. He'd fought all night, had refused to let Ivan overtake him. Not that he hadn't been truly panicked—who knew Ivan's intentions at the worst of times, let alone the best of times—or that he hadn't been unsure. Ivan, damn him. He'd countered Alfred at every turn as if he'd known Alfred better than himself.

He reached for his pants. He probably did, and may have been waiting for Alfred's green light. He refused to admit how long he'd known _something_ was there, Alfred thought, so he was obviously last to the gate. It wasn't like Russia to humor the younger nations for any period of time, so he should've known. He should've known.

Anxiety tried to squeeze his lungs, but he took a stabilizing breath. At the end of the day, he thought, nothing would change. They had merely admitted to the nebulous _something_ that had grown between them, shared a long conversation like so many times before. There would be no grand confessions, no emotional revelations, no promises. They both knew better. Nothing had to change, and that was a great comfort.

So why, then, was it so difficult to leave the safety of the bathroom? Hot water replaced color in his cheeks, and his hair clung to his scalp like an Italian's. His eyes were clear, his body was clean, his butt hurt, and he was hungry. Food was in the kitchen, he reminded himself. But he stayed where he was, and watched his reflection furrow its brow.

Ukraine raised her voice to call something out to Ivan, and Alfred spared a thought for her. He was glad she and Ivan were mending their relationship. Ukraine was a sweet lady, he thought, and didn't deserve her family's crazy bug. She seemed aware that she was the only healthy sibling she had, and seemed determined to make use of what rational thinking she could manage. Good for her, he thought, because the crazy family had just gained a kooky uncle. A handsome, funny, sexy, kooky uncle.

Maybe he put too much thought into the issue, he told himself. Maybe Ivan really was just being manipulative, just wanted to keep him around for the sex. That would simplify the matter, he thought, even if it hurt for reasons he refused to examine. Maybe it was just make-up sex, and Ivan let him stay for the day because he was hoping for more.

He would gauge by Ivan's behavior, he thought, and forced himself to leave the bathroom instead of hiding like a prom night disaster. No walks of shame for Alfred F. Jones, he told himself as he closed the door. He was king in every castle. And if he was lucky, Ivan would look at him with complete disinterest and leave the room when he arrived. He might not even talk to him. Wouldn't that be lucky.


	5. Final Chapter

"Alfred? Are you hungry?"

Fuck that sexy bass voice, Alfred thought, and turned to see that Ivan had wandered out of the kitchen with his stupid long legs and his stupid soft hair to find him. Alfred kept his expression completely neutral and pulled up his pants by the belt loop. "Yeah, I just wanted to get my phone."

Ivan scrutinized him as he padded to the closet to retrieve his cell phone from his coat pocket, forgotten in the previous night's excitement. Alfred turned to lift an eyebrow as he closed the closet door. "What?"

Ivan cocked his head, arms crossed. "I thought you might try to run."

Well, if that wasn't interesting. Not exactly, he thought, the cold shoulder he'd been hoping for. Alfred tucked his cell into his back pocket and met Ivan where he stood, hands held up in a position of surrender. "I think we're past running, buddy."

He passed Ivan and found that his mug was already filled and steaming. Grateful, he took a cautious sip as Ivan returned to his seat at the table and gestured, sandwich in hand, for him to join. As he sat—gingerly—Alfred asked, "Where'd Ukraine go?"

"She forgot something, I think. I was not listening." Ivan said through a mouthful, leaning back in his chair. "She will return soon."

Alfred nodded from the depths of his first sandwich, noting that snow still fell past the window above the counter. "I have four calls from Mattie and Arthur. Did something go down last night while we were busy?"

Ivan's face closed. He shook his head, then shrugged. "Not that I am aware."

"Kinda hoping they just got drunk." Alfred reached for another sandwich, made a mental note to check Ivan's honesty. "Otherwise somebody's been talking to France, and _that_ is a conversation I don't want to have."

Alfred drank coffee and ate at his table, and Ivan had no desire to lose his attention. He pushed the plate closer to Alfred with a finger. "Do they know you are here?"

Alfred slowed his motions, brushing crumbs from his hands, and then said with his eyes on his mug, "No. I told Mattie I was going home."

"That was very stupid."

"Yeah, well. We both did stupid shit last night." Alfred burned his tongue on superheated coffee and winced, watching snow glide to the ground. "I'm not dead yet. I figure I can make at least a few more dumbass decisions yet today."

Ivan felt unease coil in his stomach. Alfred seemed calm enough, but he spoke as if he regretted his decisions. Perhaps he should not have followed him into the hallway, Ivan thought; he had hovered, and made his Alfred uncomfortable. He said nothing, and tried to sit without fidgeting.

Alfred emptied his mug and stood to refill it with glorious coffee. Reaching for the carafe, he realized that Ivan had never responded to his self-deprecating joke. As the nectar of the gods filled his cup, he added to the window, "You got anything to do today?"

"Nothing that cannot be done tomorrow."

Alfred frowned and replaced the carafe onto its heated coil. Ivan's voice had raised considerably, returning to a higher tone that Alfred knew meant discomfort. He continued to face the wall, but asked, "Something wrong, big guy? You got all high-pitched on me."

Ivan was quiet for a long while. When he spoke, Alfred thought he sounded like a child. " _Nyet_."

He sipped his coffee, stared out the window, sipped his coffee, stared. Ivan sat in the corner of the room in silence. He'd retreated, Alfred thought, but what had he said?

Alfred gave him the most charming smile he could muster. "Yeah, you're right. Something's wrong here. You've got a bunch of nicknames for me, but I don't have any for you."

Ivan could only stare, anxiety forgotten, as Alfred turned and the white light reflected from the snow outside ignited his profile. His hair glowed golden, his skin bronze, his eyes like precious jewels as he smiled so simply, so honestly at him. Alfred shined, Ivan thought, as if divine. "You are like an angel, Alfred."

He froze, mug halfway to his mouth, and choked on his inhale. Ivan's eyes were pale and shallow from the sanctuary he kept deep in his own head, but he talked as if they were still in bed together. It wasn't fair, Alfred thought, that Ivan could wax poetic in any state. How many advantages did one guy need?

Alfred coughed, steadied his mug with both hands, blushed pink, and Ivan realized his mistake. His Alfred did not regret him. He drank his coffee, asked for proof of his affection. If Alfred had decided to run, he would have done so immediately after their consummation.

"Vanya." Ivan said with a smile that hinted at hidden wickedness. Alfred swallowed a mouthful of nothing but air. "Please call me Vanya."

Great, Alfred thought, he'd pulled him back out of his shell. Barely, but definitely. "What, uh, what does that mean?"

Ivan stood with that menacing-innocent smile, and Alfred clutched his coffee mug as he approached. The counter bit into his back, and he wished for the thousandth time that he was six inches taller. Cool fingers brushed his, and Ivan set his mug on the counter, then stepped too close.

"'Vanya' is an intimate form of my name. That is what my family calls me."

Cornered against the counter, Alfred balked. "You, uh. You never told me what that one word means."

" _Podsolnukh._ " Ivan trailed his fingertips along the crease of Alfred's jeans, but abandoned the erogenous area in favor of that strong jawline.

Ivan's fingers were regrettably light, Alfred thought, exactly right. Ivan knew exactly how to touch him. Exactly how to talk to him. Had studied him for years, since the beginning he'd forgotten until just the night before. He was a mathematic formula in Ivan's head, straightforward and clear as glass, and he couldn't muster anger for it. Alfred tilted his head into the touch and said, "Yeah, that one."

The boy's blue eyes were limpid, so fearless in his presence. He would repeat his masterful efforts ten thousand more times for the next thousand years if those monumental efforts could bring such a trusting expression to Alfred's face. Ivan watched sunlight reflect yellow in Alfred's beautiful blue. He traced the line of his nose, his chin, his throat, and Alfred allowed the study without reservation. He could kill the boy now, and not a soul would breathe otherwise. He'd be dead before he hit the ground.

He moved away, offered Alfred independence, and returned to his chair. "It means 'sunflower'. It is how I think of you."

Alfred stood frozen, gazing at the place where Ivan's intense eyes had been a moment before. He'd followed the contours of his face as though memorizing every detail of his expression, studied him like a marble statue in a museum, and all with that erotically narcissistic slat to his eyes. Alfred had felt like a prized cat being brushed for show, or a prized dog being run through its paces. For a second, he had been the only living thing in Ivan's icy world, and he had been precious. No one had ever looked at him with such a total lack of restraint.

He'd been fucked for hours, Alfred thought dumbly, fucked like life depended on it, and somehow Ivan stopped him in his tracks with just a touch, just a look. Maybe he should take Francis out on a double date, have Ivan show him a thing or two.

Then what Ivan said registered in his sleep-deprived brain. "Sunflower? I'm not a flower."

Ivan wrapped his hands around his tea, hoping the poor substitute could provide the warmth he missed. "Of course you are. You are bright, you thrive in sunlight and open air. You are colorful. You are beautiful. With a moment's effort you breed yourself over a field and are no longer alone."

Holy shit, Alfred thought, Russia thinks I'm a fucking flower.

Ivan took a calming sip of his tea. "And, of course, you cannot survive the winter."

Alfred snorted. He paced unhurriedly back across the cold kitchen floor to the table. His chair scraped the floor. "I think I survived some winter last night, buddy."

"Mm." Ivan sipped and stared at him.

The penetrating gaze didn't reach his anxious heart like it used to. Alfred lifted his mug and stared right back. Then he grinned. "I think you're losing your touch, Braginsky. I guess the odds were pretty high."

Ivan raised an eyebrow.

"Last night." Alfred settled back in his chair, draping a lazy arm over the wooden backing. "I asked you what the odds were that I'd leave on my own two legs today."

Ivan's expression cleared in understanding. A similar smirk tugged at his mouth. "I told you the odds. It was your choice to believe."

Alfred's phone buzzed frantically in his back pocket. He retrieved it with a grimace for his poor backside. Ivan definitely noticed.

He hid his expression behind his tea as Alfred read what he'd been sent. Alfred frowned at him.

"It's Mattie. Mom's freaking out about something political." He read, then returned the phone to the table.

"Do you need to leave?"

Alfred heard the lilt that threatened Russia's deep voice and wondered about split personalities. He brushed crumbs from the table. "You need me more today. I can deal with England whenever."

"You are free to do as you please. You could return later."

"No," Alfred said, leaning back in his chair, "I'm good. I'm tired, man. I'm so tired."

He hadn't spoken about what had descended from the ceiling to hang between them—the unwanted _what now_ —but Ivan nodded as though he knew Alfred was tired of hiding what he'd been doing, the sin he continued to commit with the sworn enemy. Melancholy, Alfred ran a finger around the rim of his mug. His thoughts returned to Arthur, to the insulting things he'd say when he did eventually figure it out.

He'd call him an idiot first, then a few other names that meant basically the same thing. Then he'd cuss a few times, pace around the room, make furious faces while he threw insults at anything unlucky enough to cross his mind. Then he'd ask Alfred if he was stupid or just blind, and the fight would begin.

He would talk to France first, he decided, feel out the problem. Big brother France would know what to do, and would be discreet. He had suggested talking to Russia in the first place, Alfred thought, frowning at his coffee. This was his fault.

Alfred scrubbed his eyes, troubled. Ivan watched the boy's face fall into the political blank mask they all knew, and was saddened by his anxiety. Undoubtedly it was Arthur who stormed the boy's mind with such disrespect. "No one needs to know."

Alfred glanced up at him, laid his head on his hand, and sighed. "What do you think?"

It was not the first piece of advice Alfred had asked of him. He knew his counsel carried significant weight in Alfred's mind and had offered on many occasions his guidance and recommendations. He considered his answer carefully, as he always did, while he trailed the tip of a finger in a circular pattern on the table. "I am not someone to seek counsel on the matter."

Alfred lifted his head. "What do you mean?"

Ivan shook his head once to the side. "Consider the issue."

The sun climbed higher in the Russian sky, beaming what heat could reach the Earth. It had travelled a fair distance before Alfred finally laid his forearms on the table. "You have a lot to gain from an alliance like that with me, both personally and politically. Mostly because everyone else has a lot to lose. So you'd always vote to just come out with—this." He motioned between them. "The closer everyone thinks we are, the more likely you are to get what you want."

"And you as well, Amerika." Ivan couldn't resist.

Alfred chewed his lip. "I can't really trust anyone on this, I guess."

"It is unwise." Ivan agreed.

"Well." Alfred stretched his arms above his head, oblivious to the hungry gaze cast over his abdomen. "I don't have to do anything right this second. I'm taking the day off. You wanna do something?"

He would come around, Ivan thought. The boy behaved like the empires of old. He would not be sated for long. He only needed to wait. "A game?"

"Games." Alfred laughed. "All you and me do is play games. Deadly, deadly games."

But he stood, coffee in hand, and led a contented Russian into the room where it had begun forty years ago. Where Cold War became Everything Else, and the first mistakes were made, then the second and the third.

How many more mistakes, Alfred wondered as he sat, would this room see?

And how breathtaking, Ivan thought with remote in hand, the ending would be.


End file.
